


A Little Training

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Age Play, Age Regression, Bed-Wetting, Comfort/Angst, Desperation, Desperation Play, Diapers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Nightmares, Omorashi, Pacifiers, Panic Attack, Self-Harm, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, potty training, pull-ups, spanking (chapter 10), training pants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: Papa Greg and Daddy Mycroft follow through on their little Bunny's request to be potty training.  Sherlock, after some initial grumpy stubbornness, joins in on the game.   But will potty training be as fun as Bunny hoped with his big brother involved?  And will Sherlock be able to overcome his doubts and learn to let go and accept the care he needs?





	1. A Little Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I've kept you all waiting for far too long, but I'm happy to get you the first chapter of the as-promised Bunny potty training story. This is the next part in the Little Brothers Mine series, but if you're just here for the wetting, accidents, and ageplay, I'm sure it will be easy enough to follow along without going back to read the previous stories. 
> 
> Please feel free to send requests for what you'd like to see in this story--I'll be writing as I go so I'm happy to include reader requests if they fit into the direction of the plot! The main goal of the story is just to give us all a bit of cute fluff after the emotional roller coasters of "Weekend" and "Settling In." We'll see if I can stick to that goal, though--you know I often can't resist a bit of drama! 
> 
> I've also been working on a one-shot that I'll post on tumblr hopefully by the end of the week (probably in two parts because it's already way too long for one post), so be sure to check out [Little Brothers Mine](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/little-brothers-mine) in the next few days. 
> 
> I hope you're all well!

Bunny, sitting at Daddy’s kitchen table, was fighting the urge to suck his thumb as he ran his fingers methodically over the soft, delicate fur of his stuffed rabbit’s floppy ear. He had known from early that morning, even as Papa arrived at Baker Street to help him and Sherlock begin the process of aging down, that there was a plan set in place for the week, that conversations had been happening both with and without the boys in order to establish ground rules and plan expectations. 

“I had an interesting conversation with Mycroft, today,” Sherlock had said a week ago, flinging himself into his armchair after barrelling into the previously quiet flat and shrugging off his coat, which he tossed onto John’s empty chair. 

John had glanced up from where he was sitting at the desk in front of his computer screen to give a lackluster hum of acknowledgement. He’d been updating the blog and was not too keen to be pulled from the memories of a now-distant case. As it was, the events had taken more than a bit of effort to recall. He was currently struggling to capture the frenetic pace of the events of the crime without appearing cavalier and without going into more detail than was necessary. He continued typing, not wanting to lose his current train of thought.

“He thought we might all find some time to spend together next week,” Sherlock continued. 

“Right,” John said, half listening as he read back his last sentence and edited out a misplaced modifier.

“We don’t have anything on,” Sherlock said. “And you’re due some time off at the clinic.”

Usually, Sherlock barely knew what day of the week it was, nevermind their plans for the following week. It figured Sherlock would want to launch into a conversation about future plans just as John was beginning to find the correct direction for the blog post.

“But he needed to know if, once we age down, I wanted to be potty training, too.”

He shifted his attention. Sherlock was looking at him pointedly, raising a cheeky eyebrow. John, clearing his throat in an attempt to distract from the blush he knew was spreading across his cheeks, blinked wordlessly. Here was Sherlock’s way of combating the half-attention he had given him: brash bluntness deployed for shock value. The man smirked while John balked. 

“He, ah...you...what?” John asked, computer screen forgotten.

It was nearly September and a month since John and Sherlock had been young for longer than a stolen evening or afternoon at Baker Street. Even then, it had been little more than the occasional thumb slipped into one mouth or another while they stayed up too late watching telly, the occasional pull-up sleepily yanked on before they fell into bed together, and one overly-dramatic response which almost veered towards temper tantrum. 

Greg and Mycroft, who were usually annoyingly insistent that the boys not go longer than they deemed healthy without time to be young, had not expended their usual energy to encourage the men to age down over the course of the previous few weeks, both seemingly wrapped up in work and busy on weekends. They popped by from time to time, sometimes even came close to coddling and mother-henning. But there were no invitations for sleepovers at Mycroft’s flat, no talk of excursions under Greg’s care, and definitely no extended time for ageplay. 

The truth was that the intensity of the last ageplay session--a session filled with recalled childhood trauma on Sherlock’s part and complicated issues of gender identity on Bunny’s--had made things rather fraught for all involved, had settled a new weight over what had always been, first and foremost, a stress release. 

John didn’t blame the men for needing some time to themselves. Sherlock and John were not the only ones who had made progress over the course of their last ageplay session, who had learned new things about themselves and the others. It only made sense that everyone had needed a bit of time to process and re-establish. John himself was still sorting through the emotional ramifications. 

That said, he could not help but feel relief through his embarrassment over Sherlock bringing up potty training. If Mycroft had spoken to him about it, it meant he and Greg were ready to begin again. John had been hesitant to reach out to them, even during nights he felt particularly vulnerable or could recognize the youthful glint around Sherlock’s tired eyes. He’d felt a pit growing in his stomach for over a week, not knowing how to explain to the others that he felt himself coming unmoored without the solid surety of their care. 

“You’re blushing,” Sherlock teased, one corner of his mouth turned up in a pleased-with-himself smirk. 

“It’s not, ah…,” John cleared his throat and ran a hand over the back of his neck, tilting his splotchy cheeks away from his grinning boyfriend. “I don’t…” 

Yes, John had quite bashfully discussed with Greg and Mycroft his desire to explore aspects of potty training, interested in the structure and inevitable praise and attention that would come from such a practice as well as the chance to slip a bit deeper into headspace. But he hadn’t expected the information to be passed along to Sherlock, and he certainly hadn’t expected Sherlock to bring up the prospect while they were both fully adult.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said with the breath of a laugh, releasing John from his stuttering embarrassment. “Mycroft and Lestrade think we could all do with a little bit of good old-fashioned ageplay, no bells or whistles or unearthed childhood traumas. I suppose you can’t get any more fundamental than toilet training.”

John, catching eyes once more with Sherlock, decided to give in to the man’s crooked grin. He sighed, letting some of the tense rigidity of his shoulders slip away as he stood and crossed to his chair. He lifted Sherlock’s coat from the cushion to free a spot for himself, and sat. 

Sherlock seemed to sense that John had relented and was not going to deny or avert. 

“I’m going to earn more stars on the training chart than you,” Sherlock said with a wink. 

John hurled the man’s coat at him with a scoffing laugh.

“Like hell you are,” he said.

Now, aged down and seated at the kitchen table in Daddy’s lap while Papa pointed out the details of their very own potty training charts, Bunny felt less sure about the whole idea. Sherlock had spent the morning fighting against headspace and was in a grouchy, pre-teen mood. Bunny had dropped into an emotional, clingy headspace as soon as the opportunity arose, but was feeling nonverbal and very young. He was nervous, afraid of what he had gotten himself into and unsure of his young self after so many long weeks of staunchly remaining adult. It was all a bit overwhelming. 

“There’s a chart for each of you,” Papa was explaining. Each was labelled with times of the day: morning, afternoon, dinnertime, bedtime, and nighttime “You’ll get to choose a sticker every time you use the potty like big boys.”

Bunny was having a tough time concentrating on anything other than how safe and small he felt in his Daddy’s lap. But Daddy rubbed his arm and nodded to the stickers spread out on the table beside Papa--stars, mermaids, dinosaurs, cupcakes, ladybugs, lizards, pirate ships, princesses, planets--and the bright colors and sparkles caught his attention. Bunny wanted to look through all of them, had already began planning the ones he would choose to stick onto the rows of his chart. 

“I’m not some little kid,” Sherlock scoffed, arms crossed and hair falling over his eyes. “I don’t need a stupid chart made for babies.” 

Bunny turned his face against his Daddy’s chest, shy now that Sherlock had condemned what Bunny had begun to find exciting.

“Watch the attitude, brother mine,” Daddy said, voice unhappy. “If you do not wish to participate, you will not be forced to, as I told you when we last spoke.” 

For all of his antics and refusals, a part of Bunny knew Sherlock was not actually against the scheme. He’d seemed rather eager to begin on the day he joked about it with John, pressing him for information about his early memories of toilet training-- “I knew you were a late bloomer; I myself was out of nappies by 18 months, thanks to Mycroft’s tyrannical regimen”--and going so far as to begin searching for chamomile tea, which he explained had natural diuretic properties in case they wanted to make things more interesting when the day to begin came. 

Now, however, Bunny glanced up to see Sherlock huff a sigh and hunch himself lower into the kitchen chair. 

“Can I leave, now?” he asked. 

“We’ll call you for lunch,” Daddy said, and Sherlock’s chair scraped against the lino as the moody boy stood to leave the room.

“Wait a minute,” Papa called as he stood and crossed to the fridge. Sherlock paused in his rush from the room. “Take this with you,” he said, holding out a juicebox and then a granola bar.

“I don’t want them,” Sherlock said, eyebrows furrowed in irritation. “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s what you said this morning at breakfast, too,” Papa said. “It’s clear you haven’t been eating well. So you can either take them with you upstairs, or you can sit at the table and I’ll monitor the number of bites you take.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, but snatched the juice and granola bar from Papa’s hands before stomping towards the staircase in a dramatic show of displeasure. He only stopped his stamping feet when Mycroft warned him he was close to losing his screen time privileges. 

Sherlock would close himself into the spare bedroom farthest down the hall. It was the room that Sherlock insisted on staying in when he was in his older moods, far away from the treasure maps and pirate lore of his more childish bedroom at Mycroft’s, which he deemed beneath him. He’d somehow convinced Mycroft to get him a video game console for the spare telly in the guest room; when he was in moods like the one he was now, he would play for hours on end, only leaving when forced to join them for meals. 

“Well, kiddo, what do you think?” Papa asked as he came back towards the table. “Want to help me put your chart up on the fridge?”

Bunny nodded, climbing from Daddy’s lap and scrambling towards Papa. He pressed himself against the taller man, needing the contact, and Papa hugged him close as they used magnets to stick first Bunny’s and then Sherlock’s chart up onto the stainless steel of the refrigerator. 

“Do you have to go potty now, ladybug?” Papa asked.

Bunny shook his head; he had peed before leaving Baker Street even though Sherlock had refused on the grounds that he wasn’t a stupid baby. It was almost disappointing because that meant he couldn’t show his Daddy and Papa what a big boy he was and he couldn’t choose a sticker for his chart, but, for the moment, he was content to simply be led back over to his Daddy, who welcomed him once more onto his lap and wrapped his arms around him.

“Missed you, Daddy,” he mumbled, opening his mouth to accept the pacifier pressed against his lips even as he knuckled at tired eyes. 

“I missed you, too, baby,” Daddy whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of Bunny’s head and tucking Willa the rabbit beneath Bunny’s arm.

“I’m a big kid, Daddy,” Bunny mumbled. “Gonna get lotsa stickers on my chart.”

“Good boy,” Daddy said. “Papa and Daddy will be proud of you no matter what, okay, kiddo?”

Bunny nodded. 

“I know, Daddy,” he said through a yawn. 

Daddy caught his pacifier just before it tipped out of his mouth, then settled it back between the boy’s lips with a chuckle. 

John was calm and little for the first time in nearly a month, and he could not help but feel a strong sense of contented relief. He smiled into his Daddy’s shoulder and allowed himself to rest his eyes as his Papa and Daddy sipped tea and spoke softly over his head about elections and grocery shopping and work colleagues. At another time, he would be following their train of thought, eager to contribute his own ideas and questions. But, at the moment, he was content to listen to nothing more than the familiar hum of their voices as he revelled in the warmth of his Daddy’s chest and envisioned his training chart full of sparkly, shining stickers, each one labeling him a good, smart boy.


	2. A Little Hesitant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kind words and support, loves! I'm so pleased to see that you enjoyed the first chapter, and it's great to be back writing for all of you again. Thanks also for those of you who sent in requests--it's always fun to be able to incorporate new ideas and perspectives, so keep them coming!
> 
> This chapter and the next were originally one longer chapter, but I decided to break them up a bit for ease of reading and because I wanted to tweak the second half a bit. I'll be posting a one-shot on tumblr (hopefully) tomorrow, and then I'll be able to finalize the next chapter of this story. 
> 
> I hope you're all well--sending you Bunny kisses :)

Sherlock slammed the guest bedroom door at the far end of the hall with a huff. Tossing the granola bar and juice box to the floor, he dropped to his knees and yanked the gaming console out from where it was stored in the cabinet beneath the telly. 

He wanted nothing more than to be distracted from the coddling, overbearing attention he’d been receiving all day. He didn’t need anyone reminding him to wear a coat in the rain or to take off his shoes when he came into the house. He didn’t need anyone monitoring his meals or telling him to comb his hair. He definitely didn’t need some potty training chart made for little kids. 

He rooted through the cardboard box which held the options he had for video games. Mycroft didn’t allow violence, which limited his options for entertaining video games, but after once being caught playing a war game, he knew better than to push his luck. There were a few Mycroft-approved options he knew would keep his attention, and he was in search of one particular game he had been close to beating the last time he'd played. He felt his irritation growing when he couldn't find what he was looking for, an irritation which suddenly made him feel close to tears. He blinked furiously and upended the entire box of games in a last-ditch effort to keep himself from succumbing to the weepiness which had been threatening all morning. 

It had all just been too much at once: Greg arriving before John and Sherlock had even gotten out of bed, the man settling into caretaker mode immediately as he cooked them breakfast and roused them awake, John slipping down seemingly without a second thought and leaving Sherlock alone with his doubts and worries. 

The impulse to rail against Greg’s ministrations was instinctual rather than spiteful, prodding Sherlock into becoming little more than a swearing, glaring lump under the sheets for the better part of the morning. If he had been a man more prone to processing emotions, he would have identified the impulse to reject care as an avoidance tactic, a way to protect himself from the stress he was feeling about the plans for the week. As it was, half in headspace and too wrapped up in his own frustration and anger to deduce the origins of his bad mood, he found contentment by residing in irritability. 

He found the searched-for disc in a mismatched case and boorishly shoved it into the console. He fished a controller out from a mess of tangled wires he’d neglected to put away neatly last time, then reached to turn on the telly. He'd settled on an adventure quest, and sat cross-legged on the carpet as he waited for the home screen to load. He took a certain pleasure in sitting closer to the telly than Mycroft or Papa liked. 

\----

“Think the kid’s okay upstairs?” Greg asked as he refilled Mycroft’s tea cup. They had finished a conversation about their schedules for the upcoming week, and Greg’s thoughts had expectedly shifted to Sherlock. “He’s been struggling all day.” 

“You know he’s never been one for easy transitions into headspace,” Mycroft said, one hand absently running through the hair at the back of Bunny’s head as their youngest dozed against his chest and suckled rhythmically on his pacifier. “He’ll be okay after some time alone.” 

Greg reclaimed his seat with a sigh as Mycroft sipped at his tea. 

“I should’ve held off on the charts,” he said, regretting that, in his eagerness to have the boys back, he may not have been very tactful in introducing the plan for potty training. “He obviously wasn’t in a place to appreciate them.”

“You were excited,” Mycroft said, softening around the eyes as he smiled at him. “It was charming.”

Greg scoffed but returned the smile, wrapping his hand around the warmth of his mug. It was a gloomy day, and rain had begun falling when he’d left Baker Street with the boys zipped into their jackets. Sherlock had refused to stand under the umbrella as they walked to the car. 

“He was on-board with the plan when you spoke to him last week,” Greg said. “I didn’t anticipate a fight.”

“Sherlock has a bit of a storied history when it comes to toilet training,” Mycroft said. 

He glanced down to Bunny, and Greg could see that he was assessing whether the boy was deep enough asleep for him to feel free to speak uncensored. He held up a hand to signal to Greg that he’d should follow, then picked Bunny up and carried him into the living room. Greg stepped behind him closely, already uneasy without one kid in his sights and not eager to be out of the presence of both. 

“You know as well as I that, as complicated as John’s relationship is to wetting, Sherlock’s is moreso” Mycroft whispered as Greg helped him lay Bunny on the couch. “I imagine the entire subject has brought about rather convoluted and intricate emotions that he may not have been anticipating. John is returning to explore this part of himself after many years of adulthood; Sherlock, in a sense, has never stopped exploring.”

Greg fished a blanket from the cabinet beneath the bookcase and draped it over a whining Bunny.

“Daddy?” the boy asked, blinking blearily up at Mycroft.

“Daddy’s right here, princess,” Mycroft assured him. “Close your eyes and get some rest.”

Bunny gave a last little whine before rolling over to snuggle his stuffed rabbit beneath his neck as he went back to sleep, pacifier bobbing once more. 

“In theory, acting out a toilet training scenario is rather ideal for Sherlock,” Mycroft explained. 

He and Greg stationed themselves in the window seat on the far end of the living room, Mycroft sitting straight-backed while Greg slumped against the side of the bookcase, one leg up on the cushion on which they were seated. He passed Mycroft his tea cup after retrieving their drinks, which he had carried in from the kitchen, from the coffee table. 

“We know Sherlock takes pleasure in wetting and even, sometimes, in the humiliation that comes with the act. In practice, however, alongside others who have set plans in place and have expectations for his progress, I anticipate it’s all a bit too much to take in at once. What has for years been a mainly private, free-form game is about to become a rather publicly regimented endeavor.”

Greg nodded. He'd been thinking of this as a new way for the boys to lose themselves in ageplay. It was an opportunity for them to feel comfortable sinking low in age and a way for Greg and Mycroft to reinforce their care for them, to encourage them. But Mycroft was right. There was potentially more at stake for Sherlock, and he had to be sensitive to his boy’s fears, fears hiding beneath the surface of his moodiness. 

\----

Sherlock was getting progressively more frustrated as he played. He was racing through a dark path in a jungle, sword out to slash away vines and leaves in his way. But he wasn’t making any progress, consistently failing to recognize the dangerous traps waiting for him and falling prey to them. When he made a wrong turn and his character fell into quicksand and was forced to start again at the beginning of the level, he threw his controller to the ground with an angry growl and then kicked it away from him, crossing his arms and twisting his body away from the telly. 

He squirmed a bit in place and slipped his thumb into his mouth, shifting his eyes towards the door to watch in case anyone came in and he needed to pull it away quickly. He didn’t want anyone to think he actually needed it. 

It was only after a moment that he realized he may be shifting about out of more than just restlessness brought on by his frustration, and he reached down to press a hand between his legs. He’d been lying when he’d argued with Papa that he didn’t need to pee before leaving Baker Street an hour or so ago. Papa had put a hand on his shoulder and, leaning towards him, had asked if he needed to potty before they left. It had all made him feel like such a helpless baby, and Sherlock had shrugged his hand away and bit back swear words he knew he’d be punished for, then glared as he denied needing the loo. 

Nothing had gone right today, and his luck hadn’t changed. He couldn’t win at video games and he couldn’t ask for Papa or Mycroft to come up to the room to help him figure out what was wrong and he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to the poster board chart with his name on it, a chart which reminded him far too much of his youngest years. 

He hadn’t exactly given John the full story when he’d proclaimed himself toilet trained at 18 months. It was true he’d been out of diapers before he was two thanks to the no-nonsense approach to toilet training taken by his mathematician mother, who had found great success toilet training Mycroft in less than a week. But once it all became routine, once the praise for using the loo fell by the wayside as new family events took precedence, Sherlock began to show rather a lack of concern for what he had previously mastered. 

He was placed back into nappies before long, his father insisting Sherlock clearly needed to decide for himself when the time was right, and thus began an on-again-off-again pattern of Sherlock alternating between pants and nappies until it became easiest just to leave him in pull-ups full-time. Sherlock would use the loo when it was convenient for him and use his pull-ups when it wasn’t, and it simply became a known fact that the Holmes’ headstrong youngest son wore training nappies until far past the time it was deemed acceptable. 

His mother and father had, in a fit of desperation, placed the task of potty training onto Mycroft’s shoulders, having not made any progress themselves. Mycroft was self-assured and pragmatic, and they were hopeful that Sherlock, in awe of his older brother, may respond more positively to him than he had to them. 

Thus began the summer of Mycroft’s strict regimen for toilet training. He implemented timed trips to the loo and a system where Sherlock earned checks on a chart for every dry morning, afternoon, and evening. The checks could be converted into trips to the science museum or bike rides with the sports-averse Mycroft. 

But Sherlock hadn’t been very good about sticking to the rules of potty training, and more often than not his rows were filled with x’s instead of checks. The early promise he’d shown seemed to have dissipated by the time he got to his second go-round. Although he tried his best to please Mycroft, eager to make him proud and to prove he was a good teacher, more often than not he achieved only disastrous results. What made Sherlock think this time would be any different? 

Sherlock breathed hard through his nose, yanked his thumb out of his mouth, and turned to gather up his game controller once more. He would forget about Mycroft and the old memories, forget about the bright gleam in Papa’s eye when he introduced the training chart, forget about the fear that Bunny would be better than him at the whole ordeal. And he would forget about the squirmy feeling he’d been feeling at the base of his stomach, the feeling which meant his bladder was full. 

He began the level over again, determined that hold off a trip to the loo until he’d beaten the jungle level and moved onto the cave. He was proving something to himself. Proving he was big enough to hold it through the level, big enough to set his own bathroom schedule. Proving he didn’t have to obey a silly chart which told him when to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Remember when I said this story wasn't going to be angsty? ;p I didn't even make it two chapters without little Sherlock pulling us into angst! Hopefully you all don't mind <3 
> 
> P.P.S. Come visit me [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/little-brothers-mine)! I promise I haven't forgotten about the one-shot, which I will do my best to post by tomorrow night.


	3. A Little Sneakiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves--thanks for all your lovely support of this new story! Here's chapter 3!
> 
> Warnings for mentions of self-harm--please, please steer clear if you're feeling vulnerable or may be triggered today. If you are feeling vulnerable this week, please know that you're valued and loved, and that the world wants and needs you. I'm here to chat if you need someone to listen (you can leave a comment here or message me privately through [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/)) <3 
> 
> Also, you can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline through phone, 1-800-273-8255, or online chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

Sherlock was choosing to ignore the fact that he was having difficulty sitting still, that his frantic rocking back and forth, the jiggling of his legs, and his occasional desperate grabs to the front of his pants may be the reason he was losing the same video game level over and over again. 

He could hold it. He didn’t need to get up and go to the loo in the middle of playing like he was some little kid. 

It was on what felt like his twentieth try of the same level that he first felt a dribble of pee trickle into his underwear. But he’d made it through the quicksand and was onto the swinging vines, which he’d never managed to get to in his past attempts, and there was no way he was going to pause now. He tightened his muscles, squirmed against the carpeted floor, and shifted his hips, ignoring the desperate signals his bladder was sending as he leaned closer to the telly, excited and a bit breathless as he managed to make it past the vines. 

Suddenly, his avatar was being forced to run away from a boulder rolling after him in the jungle, and, as another spurt of wetness escaped through his taut muscles and into his underwear, he swore and sat up on his knees, pressing his thighs together as he hitched his hips back and shifted them side to side in order to regain control, pressing the controller buttons a bit harder than a moment before. He could hold it. Just a bit longer. 

His eyes remained on the screen, but, unable to let go of his two-handed grip on the controller when he felt his desperation increase, he was forced to contort his body to bring the controller onto his lap, pressing it down between his crossing legs. He was desperate, frantic to keep himself from letting go all in his pants. He heart was pounding. He didn’t want to wet his pants, but he could feel his control slipping. He needed to finish the level quickly, then make a run for the loo. 

His avatar was making good progress, choosing the right handholds of a crumbling mountainside as he swung from cliff sides, but his body was losing control. _Hold it_ , he whispered to himself. _Don’t pee, please. Don’t pee_. A spurt of wetness pulsed through his underwear and spread onto his jeans, and he twisted one leg over the other. _Don’t pee. Don’t pee. Stop._

But he couldn’t hold it any longer. With a gasp, a spurt became a trickle widening the wet spot on his jeans. _No, no, no. Stop, stop_. Sherlock thrashed about as his avatar slid down a waterfall and was swept downstream, forced to swim back and forth across a wild river in order to avoid rocks, sharks, and whirlpools. _Hold it, hold it_ , he whispered when he regained a momentary control. But, a second later, a jab of desperation hit him, and he folded over onto himself as he lost control. _Shit. Stop...stop!_ He twisted about and whimpered, dropping the controller to press both hands hard and fast into his sopping crotch, grabbing himself in a last-ditch effort at control, level forgotten. But it was too late. Warmth began spreading down his thighs, and he could not make it stop. 

He had waited too long, and even as he clumsily tried to get to his feet to make a dash for the loo, it became clear that there was nothing he could do to stop the fast stream of pee pooling in his hands and soaking down his thighs and the seams of his jeans. A puddle formed beneath him on the plush carpet when his jeans could hold no more liquid, and his socks became soggy. By the time he’d regained control of what little was left in his bladder, he was well and truly soaked, and, with a stifled sob, he removed his hands, collapsed back onto the carpet with a choked sob, and finished peeing himself. His eyes were glassy with tears, but he tilted his gaze down to watch the liquid trickle from the seam of his soaked jeans onto the yellowing puddle on the cream-colored carpet. 

He was in so much trouble.

There was a long moment when he sat still and ashamed, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat strong in his throat as he fought back tears. He’d been so sure he could hold it, so adamant that he wasn’t some little kid, and now he’d gone and peed all over himself and the floor just for some stupid video game. What was he going to do? 

He couldn’t tell Mycroft. What if he was mad? If he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, sighing in disappointment as he sent him to clean himself up? Sherlock had been bratty all day, and Mycroft didn’t usually let him forget bad behavior. The prospect of telling Papa was just as bad: the man would baby and coddle and remind him that he should always use the loo as soon as he felt the need. What if he took out the dumb training chart and made Sherlock write an ‘X’ on it? Then everyone would know he’d wet himself the first day and was nothing more than a baby. 

He was feeling smaller than he had all day, and all he wanted to do was curl up in bed with Dimitri and his pacifier and hide under the blankets. But he had to get rid of the evidence before Mycroft or Papa came to check up on him or sent Bunny to call him for lunch. He stood--shuddering when dribbles of liquid pulsed down his legs--peeled off his soaked socks to keep from spreading his mess, and crept to the door, which he opened slowly. He peered into the hallway, checking that the others were still downstairs. 

Once he had assured himself that the coast was clear, he hurried across the hallway and into his bedroom, inadvertently slamming the door behind him in his haste to close himself away from anyone’s prying eyes. His heart was beating quickly as he prayed no one had heard the noise, and, because Mycroft had removed the locks from the boys’ bedroom doors, he dragged the desk chair over to the doorway and propped it beneath the doorknob to keep anyone from barging in on him. He then closed the door connecting his room to Bunny’s, wishing he had another chair with which to barricade himself but not wanting to take up any more time looking for something.

He had to move quickly. He pulled a pair of grey joggers from the bottom drawer of his ocean creatures bureau, then moved to the top drawer in order to find dry underwear. But he hesitated while reaching for a pair of dinosaur undies, eyes catching on the stack of pull-ups on the other side of the drawer. No one would be able to tell if he put one on, and if he had an accident he could change himself and not be in danger of having to put a black mark on the stupid training chart. He didn’t need a pull-up, but no one had to know. 

After another quick glance to the door and a moment where he paused to check for any noise coming from the hallway, he took a pull-up from the drawer and tossed it onto the bed beside the joggers. He then made fast work of peeling his now cold, wet jeans down his legs, followed by his sopping underwear. His cheeks pinked when he realized that even the bottom hem of his t-shirt had gotten wet, so he stripped it from his torso and used the dry sections to wipe between his legs, not finding any wet wipes nearby. 

When he was at least dried off, he stepped into the pull-up and then the joggers--the drawstring of which he tied tightly to keep them from slipping to show the top of the pull-up--before finding his striped pirate shirt in one of the middle drawers. He pulled it on, grateful for the comfort item and the fact that its oversizing would allow it to fall well below the waist of his joggers, providing additional peace of mind that his choice to wear a pull-up would go undetected.

He felt much better now that he was dry, but there was still the issue of the wet clothes and the stain on the carpet in the guest bedroom. He couldn’t throw them into the hamper; Mycroft or Papa would be sure to find them. He couldn’t bring them to the washing machine; it was in the downstairs bathroom and he would have to walk past the others. He had to hide them somewhere no one would be likely to look. He gathered up his wet things, careful not to press any wet sections against his chest as he moved the chair blocking his door and crept back out into the hallway and down to the guest room.

The guest room door had a lock, so Sherlock twisted it and breathed a bit easier knowing no one could walk in on him while he searched for a hiding place for the soiled clothes. He picked up his wet socks and added them to the pile. The closet was his first thought, but it was far too empty to have any good hiding places. The room didn’t hold much more than the telly cabinet, bed, bureau, and closet, so he was left with few options. 

It was as he stood in the middle of the room weighing the pros and cons of hiding his wet things behind the bureau or the telly cabinet or beneath the bed that he was startled by a knock on the door.

“Sherlock?”

It was Papa, voice gentle as if hoping to stay on Sherlock’s good side after his moodiness that morning. Sherlock raced to the doorway and held his shoulder against the door, grateful that he had locked it when he heard Papa try the doorknob.

“One second,” Sherlock called, voice catching. “Don’t come in!”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say, that it would draw attention to the fact that the door was locked and that Sherlock was nervous and stuttering, but he didn’t have time to worry about that at the moment. He ducked to his knees and shoved his wet clothes as far under the bed as he could. It was the quickest solution, and, with any luck, no one would look under that bed until the entire event was long past. 

“Sherlock? Why is this door locked?” Papa asked, talking quickly. “Open the door, kid.” 

He shimmied back out from under the bed and glanced around frantically to look for something he could use to cover the wet spot on the carpet, the edges of which were drying into a very telling yellowness that made Sherlock’s stomach sink. There was no way Papa wouldn’t know what had happened. But his eye caught on the earlier-abandoned juice box, and in a moment he’d opened the straw and pierced through the opening. 

“One second,” Sherlock called again, knowing it was only a moment before Papa took more drastic measures to get the door open. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to lock doors when he was young, not with his history of self-harm. “Be right there!”

He dropped to his knees and, taking the juice box in both hands, squeezed. Juice began squirting out onto the carpet, and Sherlock aimed it to cover the puddle he’d left from his wetting. The juice was almost clear, but the slight purple color and the re-wetting of the carpet was enough to hide the yellowing stain.

“Sherlock William Scott, open this door right now.” 

Papa’s voice was no-nonsense and demanding as he continued to jiggle the doorknob. Sherlock pressed the juice box harder, willing the liquid to squirt out more quickly, clumsily aiming as he glanced back over his shoulder at the door. He was grateful the video game was still waiting for him to choose to restart the level, bright electronic music repeating again and again; it would have been one more thing he’d needed to do before opening the door had the game shut off while he’d been gone. 

“Coming!” Sherlock called when the juice box was collapsed in on itself, empty. 

He dropped the empty container onto the wet spot on the carpet, tossed a box of tissues from the bedside table towards the spill to make it look as if he’d been trying to clean up, then stumbled towards the doorway, twisting to unlock the door. He stepped back as Papa immediately opened the door. 

“Why was that door locked?” Papa asked, his anger clearly driven by fear as he grabbed at Sherlock’s arms and pushed the sleeves of his pirate shirt up to his elbow to check for any cuts, then lifted the shirt clear up to his chest to check his stomach and back. 

“I spilled my juice,” Sherlock said, allowing himself to be manhandled. “I was trying to clean it up. I didn’t wanna get in trouble.” 

Papa paused, glancing to the wet spot on the carpet and then back to Sherlock. With a sigh, he pulled the boy to his chest in a hug, clearly relieved that he had not walked into a situation matching his fears.

“You know locked doors are a no-no,” Papa chastised, daddy-mode in full effect as he guided Sherlock to stand in front of him, both hands on his shoulders. “No exceptions.” 

Sherlock glanced down at his feet, happy to play the chagrined kid if it meant he could distract from what he had really been doing behind the closed door. 

“I know,” he said. “Sorry, Papa.” 

Papa shook his head with another sigh and some of his anger left as he pulled Sherlock in for another hug. 

“You worried me, kiddo,” he said, cheek angled against the top of Sherlock’s head. 

“Just spilled my juice,” Sherlock mumbled, face pressed against Papa’s chest. 

Guilt settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be lying to Papa, not when all Papa ever tried to do was make him and Bunny happy. He snuggled close to the man, then remembered that he was wearing a secret pull-up, and shifted his lower half away from Papa’s closeness. It wasn’t likely the man would have noticed, but Sherlock wanted to be safe. 

“You’ve earned a time-out for locking the door,” Papa said when he released Sherlock at last. “And no more video games today.”

Sherlock pulled away and opened his mouth to protest, but Papa held up a hand and continued talking. 

“No arguments,” he said. “For now, lunch is ready. Head on downstairs before it gets cold, and Papa will clean up the spill on the carpet.” 

He reached to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock ducked away but could not help a smirk from emerging at the corner of his mouth. Wetting his pants always made him feel small and vulnerable; the attention was a welcome relief even if he felt a bit frustrated at losing his gaming privileges for the day. 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Sherlock said, and although he knew Papa would think he was apologizing for locking the door or for spilling the juice or maybe even for his attitude that morning, he was really apologizing for the fact that he was lying to Papa’s face, that he was misleading him. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Papa said with a smile. “Now get downstairs before your little brother eats up all your dinosaur nuggets.” 

Sherlock breathed a laugh and hurried out of the room, relief overtaking guilt at the moment. He’d gotten away with it. No one had to know he’d wet his pants and the floor, he had on a pull-up so no one would know if it happened again, and they were having his favorite for lunch. Maybe the day wasn’t quite as bad as he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't checked it out yet, read Part 1 of the Little Brothers Mine one-shot "Pushing Boundaries" over on [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/). Please heed the tags! :)


	4. A Little Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! I apologize for keeping you all waiting--this chapter took a while to settle into itself, which means it took many more hours to complete and edit than I'd originally expected! I'm still not 100% confident with this chapter as it stands, so feel free to chime in if you see any areas for improvement!
> 
> I will do my absolute best to have the next chapter to you all in a much shorter amount of time! I'm too tired to respond to comments right this moment, but I promise I will respond tomorrow after getting a bit of sleep :)
> 
> I hope you're all doing well--sending Bunny kisses! <3

Downstairs in Mycroft’s presence, the prickling guilt--guilt which had surfaced when he lied to Papa about the juice on the carpet--intensified. He was worried Mycroft would deduce his naughtiness with a single look, and the disappointed sigh the man gave after asking Sherlock where his Papa was caused Sherlock to sink into himself, vowing to be as unreadable as possible.

“No more juice upstairs,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock shrugged as he climbed into his chair for lunch. 

Trying to make himself inconspicuous was a rather unfamiliar goal for Sherlock. Usually, getting away with mischief made him self-assured and proud. He loved a good challenge, and sneaking bad behavior past Mycroft and Papa--men who were professionally trained to detect just that--had always been thrilling. Acting out brought him attention, but, more than that, playing tricks on Bunny and finding loopholes in the rules Papa or Mycroft set allowed him to feel clever and in control. At the moment, however, his appreciation for any art of deception was dampened by waves of shame. He couldn’t take pride in being successfully sneaky because he couldn’t feel pride in himself. Lying to Papa and Mycroft right now wasn’t about bolstering his ego; it was about preserving it. 

Sherlock picked at his lunch absent-mindedly, forcing himself not to think about how nice it might be to leave it all behind and let himself get small enough to be fed by Mycroft. 

“How are my two favorite kiddos?” Papa asked a few minutes later as he came down the steps with a handful of dirty laundry. He walked past them to toss the laundry into the laundry hamper which sat next to the washing machine in the downstairs loo, then turned the corner back into the kitchen to wash his hands. “Leaving any dino nuggets for Papa?”

“Very funny,” Mycroft smirked, sarcastic but fond. Lately, Mycroft had been insisting that Papa eat a bit healthier, much to the disappointment of Papa. “Come here and tell me what you’d like on your sandwich.” 

As Papa stepped close behind Mycroft, Sherlock studied him for any clues as to whether or not he’d suspected that the stain on the carpet was not entirely attributed to juice. There was a part of Sherlock that hoped he’d noticed, hoped that, after he chatted quietly with Mycroft--who did happen to glance up at Sherlock rather pointedly after something Papa said--he would tell everyone just how babyish and naughty Sherlock had been. At least then the guilt and the worry would end. But a larger part of Sherlock--the part that was still clinging to his pride--prayed he hadn't been found out, prayed he would never have to admit to what he'd done. 

“What’s up, bud?” Papa asked once he’d finished his conversation with Mycroft to find that Sherlock was studying him. “Do I have food on my face like the little Bunny?”

Sherlock ducked his head down against his chin and shrugged while Papa stepped around the counter, crossed to the table, and reached to tickle a rather messy Bunny, who squealed in laughter and then let Papa wipe his face clean of ketchup and crumbs. 

“I’m not hungry, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, glancing up towards his brother, who was tearing lettuce for the sandwiches. 

“Aw, come on now,” Papa said, turning his attention from Bunny and reaching to tickle Sherlock’s stomach. Despite Mycroft’s quick, searching glance, it seemed Papa hadn’t caught on to Sherlock’s deception. “I know that tummy of yours has to be hungry. You haven’t eaten all day.”

He squirmed away from Papa’s long reach and glanced up towards Mycroft, who had always been the enforcer of rules pertaining to Sherlock’s eating habits. 

“Eat your lunch, Sherlock,” Mycroft said from his place at the counter. “The food on that plate needs to be gone before you can leave the table.” 

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock said. But his voice was quiet; he knew Mycroft meant what he’d said, nevermind Sherlock’s guilty conscience. 

Mycroft joined them at the table, placing a sandwich in front of Papa before taking his seat. He brought Sherlock a sippy cup of juice and set it before him, making it clear with a glance that he expected it, too, to be gone by the time lunch was finished. 

“Did you get far in your video game, champ?” Papa asked as he tucked into his lunch, obviously attempting to draw Sherlock into the conversation. 

Sherlock could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks when the attention was turned towards him. Was Papa teasing him? Had he found out Sherlock had wet himself? And why did he feel like crying when he was suddenly forced to remember the way his wee had puddled beneath him on the carpet?

“Dunno,” he said, shrugging and tucking his head down against his chest. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Papa and Mycroft sharing a glance, and knew he wasn’t exactly doing a great job of keeping them from suspicion. Luckily, they seemed to sense he was not in the mood for talking, and turned to chat with Bunny for long minutes about the games he had played that morning and the pictures he had colored and the plans he had for the afternoon. 

“You need to eat, Sherlock,” Mycroft said when he noticed that Sherlock’s plate was still full. “Or would you like me or Papa feed you?”

“I’m not a baby!” Sherlock spat. He slammed his fork onto the table, suddenly angry that Mycroft would suggest something so childish. 

There had been no reason to assume that Mycroft had not been entirely sincere in his question, but there was no arguing that Sherlock was especially sensitive to babying at the moment. It was a given that, because they’d begun potty training, wet pants held a different connotation than they had previously. What had once been nothing serious--something Sherlock had done quite often in headspace, intentional or not--suddenly felt significant, a marker of maturity and a standard to remain above. He’d lost some confidence after he’d had his accident, and was feeling at the moment as if he needed to assert himself as capable. 

“Not a baby,” Sherlock repeated, quieter this time given the surprised glances he’d received after his little outburst. 

Mycroft’s doubtful glance caused a sudden streak of defiance, and Sherlock, in an attempt to prove himself big, stuffed an entire chicken nugget into his mouth. His brother sighed the way he did when Sherlock was proving even more difficult than usual. 

“I’m finished, Daddy,” Bunny announced.

Papa breathed a laugh at the state of Bunny’s t-shirt, then reached to wipe at the worst spots with a wet cloth.

“Seems like someone could use a bib,” he said, gently teasing.

Bunny looked concerned, and, leaning away from Papa and his cloth, shook his head.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not a baby, either!” he said, spreading his fingers and placing his hands flat against his shirt to hide the ketchup stains. “I’m a big boy like Sherlock.” 

“Take your plate to the sink, big boy,” Mycroft said with an amused laugh and a wink, and Bunny pushed his chair back from the table to do as he was told.

Papa also stood, gathering his empty plate and Mycroft’s. 

“Let’s try the loo now that lunch is over, Bun,” he said, meeting Bunny at the sink, where he left the plates. He gestured for Bunny to take his hand, then began to lead the boy out of the kitchen and towards the hallway. “We want to make sure we stay dry, right?”

“Right!” Bunny called.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock expectantly when they were alone, and Sherlock, with an over-dramatic sigh, forced himself to eat. He was relieved when Mycroft finally decreed he could be done and took away his half-empty plate. Sherlock stayed seated at the table, running his fingers along the bevelled edge absent-mindedly. 

“Is there anything on your mind, bud?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock thought about confessing. He thought about explaining that he’d made a mistake and had an accident upstairs and then lied about it to Papa who had only been trying to help, and he thought about explaining to Mycroft that he was wearing a pull-up because of how worried the potty training chart made him. He thought about telling his brother he wanted to be held. But he didn’t know where to begin; he felt tethered to the lies he'd already told. 

“Tummy ache,” Sherlock said with a shrug, because it was the closest thing to the truth that he could find the words for at the moment. 

He crossed his arms on the table and buried his face in them as Mycroft began the washing up. He heard a flush of the toilet and a moment of running water from down the hall before the bathroom door swung open on its hinges.

“Well, Daddy,” Papa said as he and Bunny approached from down the hallway, “this big boy has earned a sticker for his training chart!” 

Sherlock raised his head to see Bunny bounding into the kitchen practically skipping. Mycroft, after drying his hands on a dishcloth, cupped Bunny’s cheek and smiled at him. 

“Good boy,” he said. “Go choose the next sticker you want for your chart, okay?”

Bunny nodded and skipped towards the fridge, where the stickers were held to the stainless steel surface with a variety of colorful magnets. On the fridge, Sherlock could see what he hadn’t noticed before: Bunny’s chart already held a mermaid sticker in its first box. Bunny must have used the loo that morning, maybe around the same time Sherlock had peed in his pants. The thought sent Sherlock’s cheeks blazing, and he buried his face once more into his arms crossed on the table. 

“Your turn, little pirate,” Papa called.

Sherlock stilled. He didn’t need to pee. His bladder had been emptied not long before lunch, and if he let Papa take him to the bathroom he would likely be suspicious when Sherlock wouldn’t be able to go. Even if Papa didn’t question his empty bladder, Sherlock was all too aware of the slight bulk of the pull-up between his legs. Papa was sure to see, and the fact that Sherlock had willingly slipped one on would likely bring up questions that he was not prepared to answer. He wasn’t even sure if pull-ups were allowed, anymore, given that they were potty training. What if he'd gotten himself into even more trouble by putting one on? 

“I don’t gotta,” Sherlock mumbled, voice muffled as he pressed his face hard against his forearms. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to try, kiddo?” Papa asked after what felt like a moment of hesitation. “Even a little wee can earn a sticker for your chart.” 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Is there anything you want to talk about, kiddo?” Papa asked, and this time his voice was quiet but close. 

Sherlock knew that Papa was bending down next to him. The man’s closeness, his quietness, made him want to cry. Papa was being so nice, using his gentlest voice and making sure he was speaking softly so the others wouldn’t hear while anticipating the fact that Sherlock did not want to be touched at the moment. He lifted his head only to cast his eyes down to Papa’s shoes. 

“I can’t,” he said, but a part of him was desperate for Papa to gather him up and coax the story out of him. 

Papa only glanced across the kitchen with worry towards Mycroft, however. Mycroft was keeping an eye on Bunny while simultaneously watching the conversation between Sherlock and Papa. He had a hand resting on the back of Bunny's neck, and was nodding at the boy as he energetically chattered and sorted through stickers, holding up first one style and then another for Mycroft’s input. Sherlock turned to press his face back into the darkness of his crossed arms when Papa turned back towards him. 

“You’re due for a timeout for locking the guest room door,” Papa reminded him. Then, when Sherlock remained silent, in his gentlest voice: “When’s the last time you had a wee, bud?” 

Sherlock’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t expected such a direct question, and his cheeks burned in embarrassment for what felt the hundredth time that day. Why couldn’t Papa just leave him alone? On impulse, Sherlock sat up and, lashing out, slapped his hands against the table. Anger, for Sherlock, had always been the easiest way to keep away the tears, so he forced himself to find a bit of his teenaged persona--his most guarded headspace--in order to add venom to his voice. 

“I went before lunch, okay?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Upstairs.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Papa seemed a bit taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden snarky attitude, and his gaze turned once more to Mycroft, who quirked an eyebrow and then, looking suddenly no-nonsense, opened his mouth to speak. 

It was Bunny who spoke first, however, gasping and running towards Sherlock with the pile of brightly-colored and sparkling stickers.

“If you used the potty upstairs that means you get to pick a sticker, ‘Lockie!” Bunny exclaimed, bouncing on his toes in excitement, clearly unable to fathom a situation whereby Sherlock would have “gone” before lunch without using the loo. He turned to Papa for confirmation when Sherlock was unresponsive. “Papa, Sherlock used the loo so he gets to choose a sticker for his chart, right?” 

Bunny’s wide smile, his effortless littleness and sheer excitement for what he thought was a success on Sherlock’s part, taunted Sherlock, for whom nothing at all felt effortless at the moment. 

Papa took a moment before answering, and, by the time he spoke, Mycroft had stepped closer to join them next to Sherlock, who was still seated at the table. 

“If Sherlock used the loo,” Papa said, looking steadily at Sherlock, who could not help but squirm under his steady gaze, “then, yes, Bun. He gets to choose a sticker.”

“Choose, ‘Lockie!” Bunny said, spreading the sticker sheets before Sherlock on the table and beginning to list the different types. “You used the loo so you get to pick your favorite!” 

“And if not,” Papa said, raising his voice a bit over Bunny’s excited mumblings, “That’s okay, too. We can try again next time.” 

Sherlock glanced between the men standing over him before turning his gaze back to the beveled edge of the table. It was clear they were watching him, waiting for his next move. Sherlock began to second-guess his assumption that Papa had not caught on. He was certainly looking at him pointedly, and Sherlock felt suspiciously as if he were being tested in some way. But if Papa and Mycroft knew for certain that he’d had an accident, it seemed likely they would have punished him right away. They wouldn’t be waiting for Sherlock to confirm it all by explaining that he wasn’t worthy of choosing a sticker, wouldn't they? 

He knew what would happen if he told them he’d wet his pants. Papa would rub his back, comforting even as his face took on a picture of disappointment. He would tell Sherlock he was hurt he hadn’t felt comfortable telling the truth in the guest bedroom, but was proud of him for eventually speaking up. Mycroft would shake his head and, expression hard as it always was when he was dealing with dishonesty, explain that Sherlock’s deception had earned him a spanking. He would take away Sherlock’s video game privileges for a week, at least.

“Do you want a funny pirate sticker, ‘Lock?” Bunny was asking beside him, oblivious to the tension in the room. “Or a pretty red dinosaur? Or this cool blue dinosaur?” 

It was Bunny’s reaction that would be the worst. Bunny would blink up at him with confusion and betrayal if he were to learn that he couldn’t actually share his potty training success with his big brother. If he told, Bunny would see him for what he really was: not a role model, but a pitiful baby. 

“You can have one of my princess ones, if you want,” Bunny said, sincere and heartbreakingly kind. 

Sherlock had lost enough pride in himself over the course of the day; he couldn’t handle the loss of Bunny’s pride in him, too--not after the day he’d had and certainly not while still under the watchful gaze of Papa and Mycroft. 

So, with a shaky breath and a newfound determination to continue down the path of lies he’d already begun laying for himself, Sherlock avoided Papa and Mycroft’s expectant eyes and reached forward to point at a sparkly Saturn on the planets sheet of stickers. 

“That one,” he said.

Bunny was sent into a squealing excitement. The younger boy dragged Sherlock out of his chair and to the fridge. Then, thrusting the chosen sheet of stickers into his hands, told him to put his sticker on his chart. Sherlock obeyed hesitantly, all too aware of the disheartened looks he was receiving from Mycroft and Papa, glances he was attempting to ignore as he peeled the sticker from its sheet and placed it off-centered in the first box of his chart.

“We’re both big boys, now,” Bunny said, leaning his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as he pointed first to Sherlock’s sticker and then the two stickers on his own chart.

Sherlock felt the guilt settle deeper in his stomach. He had kept Bunny from disappointment, but he’d still misled him. Not bothering to correct him about what really happened that morning was as good as lying to Bunny, and that made him feel awful. That wasn’t how a big brother was supposed to act. He sighed and pulled away from Bunny’s touch to retreat towards the table, blinking back frustrated tears. 

“Time out, now?” he asked when he’d reached Papa, and it was more of a plea than a question. 

Papa nodded and, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, settled Sherlock into the corner of the kitchen. It was the first time all day Sherlock felt he was right where he was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/)


	5. A Little Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves!
> 
> I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting for two weeks for this update! Things have been very busy, but I'm excited to get this chapter to you. Thank you all so, so much for your lovely comments--I'm off to sleep right now (I stayed up way past bedtime to finish the chapter and I really need sleep, now!) and have a busy day tomorrow, but I promise to respond to them before the weekend is out--your comments really and truly do keep me motivated and encouraged, and I value every one of you and your kind words and/or suggestions! I'm anticipating a few typos in this update because I haven't had as much time as usual for editing, so feel free to point them out if you find them! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Sending bunny kisses! xxoo

The hours after lunch passed in a parade of coloring books, plastic mermaids, and, after Bunny’s pleading, an hour of cartoons. Greg had set up a puzzle on the cleared kitchen table, and both men split their time between rooms, supervising and playing with the kiddos for a time before returning to tag the other out, trading places for the quietude of the puzzle and mugs of coffee. There was a slowness to the day that Mycroft found soothing. 

But it was clear that, despite the laziness of the day--a laziness Greg and Mycroft had agreed was needed in order to settle the boys into headspace and guide them back into the routine of ageplay after the turmoil of their last extended session--Sherlock was struggling to build up more than a fleeting interest in any of the activities. Bunny kept pestering him to play, suggesting new games increasingly tailored to Sherlock’s interests--hide and seek, dinosaur attack, pirate ship, scientists--but Sherlock shrugged the younger’s attention away, moody and petulant.

“Are you going to let him off the hook anytime soon?” Greg asked when Mycroft returned to the kitchen after dealing with Sherlock’s most recent temper tantrum--one he'd thrown over what he deemed the too-babyish cartoons currently on the telly.

Mycroft sighed, placing the telly remote on the kitchen table beside scattered puzzle pieces as he sunk into a chair beside Greg. 

“I had rather hoped he would have come to us himself, by now,” he said, glancing at the shiny sticker on Sherlock’s training chart glimmering from the fridge, a sticker which professed Sherlock’s dishonesty, something Mycroft very much resented.

“Kids lie,” Greg said, shrugging as he stood to reach a piece he fit into the bottom left corner of the puzzle. “He was embarrassed, is all.”

“Sherlock knows better than to lie to me,” Mycroft said.

Greg only turned and quirked an eyebrow.

“He knows better than to lie to me while in headspace,” Mycroft clarified, standing to carry his mug to the kitchen to rinse it out in the sink. “I just wish I knew whether this was a deliberate request for a spanking or something else entirely.” 

“Talk to him, love,” Greg said. “That’s generally how questions of motivation are answered.”

Mycroft hummed a gruff acknowledgement as he took his seat again at the table, but otherwise did not respond to Greg’s suggestion. He was still hopeful that Sherlock would see the error of his ways and confess to his deceit on his own terms. He would not admit it aloud, but there was something of pride in his refusal to put an end to Sherlock’s piercing guilt--he thought he’d raised Sherlock better than this, thought the boy understood the implications of dishonesty.

A moment later Bunny hurried into the kitchen, a bit breathless.

“Potty, Papa,” he said, shifting from one foot to another on the lino. 

Greg pushed his chair back as he stood from the table.

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he said, stepping towards Bunny to guide him down the hallway.

It was nearing half six, and Mycroft knew the boys would be hungry for dinner soon enough, so he set the oven to preheat and began pulling out the ingredients for rosemary chicken. Greg returned a few moments later with a smiling Bunny, supervised the boy as he very proudly chose a new sticker for his chart, and sent the boy back off to watch cartoons. He returned to his puzzle, ignoring Mycroft’s chiding that he would never finish before they needed to sit down to eat by waving him off and continuing to search for the correctly matching pieces. 

Mycroft had just put the seasoned chicken into the oven and was beginning to prepare the broccoli when he heard shouting from the other room. He paused, and Sherlock’s raised voice was heard over Bunny’s tears. 

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted over Bunny’s wailing, “Leave me alone!

Mycroft set down the knife on the cutting board and hurried into the living room to find the boys where he had left them on the couch. They were no longer peacefully watching telly, however. Bunny was now crying, one hand clapped over his forearm. Sherlock was sitting with his arms crossed, tucked in the far corner of the couch with his knees bent in front of him, glaring. 

“Daddy,” Bunny cried, reaching out for Mycroft as soon as he entered the room. “Sherlock pinched me!” 

“William Sherlock Scott,” Mycroft said when he noticed the red welt on Bunny’s arm. He gathered the sniffling boy into his arms. “To the corner. Now.” 

Greg had entered the living room not far behind Mycroft, and he stepped beside him at that moment, taking Bunny from his arms and shushing the boy in order to give Mycroft freedom to handle Sherlock. Mycroft turned his head expectantly towards his brother, who was still perched on the couch. He stared until Sherlock, grumbling that it wasn’t fair and that he always got in trouble and that they liked Bunny more than him, stomped to the corner of the room for timeout.

“I didn’t do anything mean,” Bunny said while perched on Greg’s hip. He sniffled as he wiped his face on the back of his wrist. “I only asked if he had to potty because he was holding between his legs.”

Mycroft and Greg shared a look. It was obvious Sherlock had been having a hard time with the whole potty training endeavor, that however game for the exercise he’d been in theory, the actual practice had thrown him off course, particularly given the difficulty he’d had shifting down into the correct headspace that morning. Mycroft wasn’t entirely surprised; after all, his brother had never had a very smooth relationship with his bladder, in childhood or adulthood, and it wasn’t something Sherlock ever talked about, if he could help it. It wasn’t surprising that the boy was having difficulties, and it wasn't surprising that he would be sensitive to inquiries about needing the loo given his accident earlier in the day. 

Still, it was wrong for Sherlock to take his own feelings of frustration and confusion out on his brother. Mycroft needed to put an end to Sherlock’s evasive moodiness, which likely meant bringing the events of the morning out into the open once and for all. First, however, he needed to make sure his brother, trying to mask his squirming in the corner, got to the loo.

“Sherlock,” he said, stepping behind the boy and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go use the loo, lad.”

Mycroft was prepared for arguments and stropping, but when Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder to glance at Mycroft, it was with gratefulness. The boy nodded, and his eyes were nearly pleading as a hand travelled to press against his crotch.

“I can do it myself, though,” he said, as vehemently independent as he had been all day. “I don’t want Papa to come in with me.”

“You can do it, yourself,” Mycroft said to appease him, guiding Sherlock out of the corner and down the hallway, where he deposited the boy in front of the bathroom door. 

\----

Sherlock hurried into the bathroom and nearly slammed the door shut in his haste to get inside. He bent over at the waist as soon as he was alone, pressing his hands between his legs and stomping in place right in front of the toilet. He had to hold it just a moment longer, just long enough to get his joggers and the pull-up out of the way. 

He hadn’t been paying close enough attention to his bladder, too wrapped up in his own bad feelings about the morning. He’d grown aware of the need to pee only when Mycroft sat him down with Bunny before the telly and put on the babyish kids’ show, but, even then, he hesitated. He regretted putting the pull-up on after his accident because it would bring attention to him if it were found, but at the same time, as he rocked a bit back and forth on the couch cushions, he was glad for the safety of it, the chance it gave him to ignore his bladder and the reminders of his accident that morning just a bit longer. But then Bunny had started pestering him, insisting that Sherlock should use the potty like a big boy, and Sherlock had gotten upset, and lashed out. 

He was grateful that Mycroft had brought him to the bathroom quickly; if he'd been made to stand in the corner for a full timeout he would have certainly wet himself. As it was, he was having trouble gaining control of himself now. The intense urge had passed, but his fingers were fumbling as he stood upright and began attempting to unknot the drawstring of his joggers, thighs scissoring back and forth in his desperate need.

“Come on, come on,” he mumbled to himself, trying to dig his fingernail into the tight knot of the drawstring to find a way to loosen the ties. “Please.” 

He had knotted the drawstring tight around his waist to keep the pull-up out of sight, but now it was giving him trouble and was far too tight to yank down over his hips. It didn’t help that his vision was getting blurry as his eyes filled with frustrated tears. He felt himself leak into the pull-up and gasped, yanking on the ends of the drawstrings in a desperate attempt to get the knot to budge.

"Please work," he mumbled. "Untie."

“Sherlock, everything alright?”

Mycroft was calling from the other side of the door. Sherlock could not help but bite back a sob. He couldn’t ask Mycroft to help him, no matter how much he wanted it. Mycroft would see the pull-up if he helped him untie his pants; Mycroft would know Sherlock had been bad.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, unable to keep a break out of his voice. 

He was feeling helpless and alone, was confused about why everything had gone wrong for him throughout the day. He pressed hard between his legs when another strong urge hit him, trying desperately to pull on the drawstring knot with one hand. But he couldn’t hold it anymore, and there was nothing he could do but collapse against the bathroom door as he lost control, urine streaming fast and warm into the pull-up. 

He covered his eyes with his forearm and squirmed around in place as he peed, knowing the pull-ups could not always take full wettings. The warmth spread across his front, down between his legs, and then around to his bum before pooling in the crotch of the pull-up, saturating the padding and turning it heavy. Sherlock pressed and squirmed and kneaded in order to gain control once more. His bladder was nearly empty by the time he could stop himself, however, and Sherlock blinked back tears, his throat tight from the desire to cry. Not again.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. “Finished?”

He should tell Mycroft what had happened, should explain and apologize and stop the cycle of lies. But he was ashamed, and it was easier to reach to flush the toilet, turn on the sink faucet to splash water on his reddened face, and pull open the bathroom door as if all was okay.

“Good?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged, but then caught Mycroft’s skeptical glances and self-corrected into a nod. As much as he wanted Mycroft to help him and forgive him and pull him into his lap for a cuddle, he was not ready to relinquish his pride just yet. 

“Alright,” Mycroft said. “Let’s have a little chat, bud.”

“First, choose a sticker for your chart, good boy,” Papa said, suddenly next to them with the stack of stickers. 

Sherlock knew it was Papa’s way of encouraging him, of cheering him up after a tough day. But the guilt caused by the first sparkly sticker had been enough to nearly swallow him whole the entire afternoon, and he knew there was no way he could pick another sticker for his chart without breaking down in tears over all the lies he’d told.

“No, thank you,” he tried, hoping politeness would deter Papa.

“You did good, kiddo,” Papa said, smiling warmly as Mycroft reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’ll choose one a bit later, once you’re feeling up to it, alright?”

Sherlock could not take it any longer. Papa was so understanding and Mycroft was so close, and Bunny, sitting watching him from where he’d been helping Papa with the puzzle, had clearly already forgiven his pinching. He’d spent the entire day lying to them all, and the heavy pull-up between his legs was a sinister reminder of his shortcomings. Sherlock’s face fell, and he started to cry.

The tears were fat and fast, and he soon found himself not just crying, but blubbering, making guttural sounds in his throat as he threw his head back and sobbed. 

“I’ve got him,” he heard Mycroft say. “Why don’t you take the little Bunny outside for a stroll before dinner?” 

“Perfect idea,” Papa said, and then bent down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead before holding out his hand and leading a rather worried Bunny towards the foyer to help him with his shoes. 

Sherlock found himself settling once the front door had closed and he was alone with his big brother. As comfortable as he had grown ageplaying with Bunny and Papa, there was nothing like the history and comfort found in the quiet moments he shared with Mycroft. Greg had gotten skilled at understanding Sherlock, at finding ways to allow him to accept care and attention, and John had learned to support him whether small or big, but it was Mycroft who read Sherlock’s needs at his most difficult. 

“Come here, lad,” Mycroft said as he took his seat and patted his thighs. 

Sherlock swiped at his teary eyes and shuffled towards Mycroft with heavy feet. He allowed himself to be pulled close, but squirmed away from Mycroft’s attempt to shift him into his lap.

“No,” Sherlock whined, but Mycroft shushed him with a none of that, now, and Sherlock relented, allowing himself to be pulled onto his lap. He could not keep the tears from forming, and he decided to stop fighting, turning his face into Mycroft’s shoulder as he cried. 

“I’ve got you, string bean,” Mycroft said, quiet and comforting. He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s back as the boy sniffled. “You’re okay.”

When Sherlock had calmed down a bit, Mycroft guided him to sit back so he could see Sherlock’s face. Mycroft’s face was soft, but it was clear he wanted to talk. He passed Sherlock his stuffed dinosaur—Papa must have brought it before leaving with Bunny—and placed the boy’s pacifier on the kitchen table next to them. Sherlock looked at it longingly, but Mycroft turned his face towards him, and Sherlock understood he was expected to talk before he would be allowed that particular comfort. 

“Are you ready to tell me what’s been on your mind, today?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged and wiped at his eyes, pulling absentmindedly at the fur on Dimitri’s tail. He wasn’t sure where to begin. He was guilty about peeing his pants and nervous about the training chart and hungry from refusing to eat all of his lunch, not to mention still feeling awkward in headspace, self-conscious and feeling like he was taking up too much space.

“Buddy, Papa found your wet jeans and undies beneath the guest room bed,” Mycroft said, and suddenly Sherlock was twisting to hide his reddening face in the crook of his brother’s neck, tears again filling his eyes as he choked on a sob.

Mycroft’s hand was again on his back, stroking up and down as he clicked his tongue. 

“Hey,” he said, “None of that, now. I need you to talk to me so that I can understand.”

Sherlock turned to peek up at Mycroft, wiping his face on the crook of his elbow. A part of him wanted to deny that the soiled clothes were his. Papa couldn’t prove Sherlock had been the one to wet them, could he? But he was tired of lying, and he was suddenly feeling very, very small. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he sniffled, residual tears spilling over onto his cheeks.

Mycroft reached to cup Sherlock’s cheek and swipe away a tear with the pad of his thumb. 

“Did you have a little accident?” he asked.

Sherlock blushed but nodded, leaning into his Mycroft’s warm touch. 

“I tried to hold it,” he mumbled, breaking down into sobs and keenly feeling the urge to suck his thumb or his pacifier. “And then I spilled the juice because I didn’t wanna be in trouble and get an ‘x’ on my chart.”

Mycroft looked at him and cocked his head a bit, clearly confused. 

“What do you mean, buddy?” he asked when Sherlock’s breathing had begun to return to normal. 

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in an effort to stop himself from crying.

“Accidents mean ‘x’es on the chart,” Sherlock explained. “You’d be disappointed. You always said so.” 

There was a moment before Mycroft seemed to understand. 

“Oh,” he said, and Sherlock was grateful he’d understood. Words were feeling hard at the moment. “Sherlock, do you mean when we were kids? When Mummy and Daddy asked me to toilet train you?” 

Sherlock sniffled and nodded. Mycroft sighed. 

“Listen to me, Lock,” he said, waiting until Sherlock turned his eyes away from Dimitri’s backplates and up to meet Mycroft’s gaze. “That was a long time ago, far before I was ready to care for you properly. We were both figuring it out as we went along, and I’m afraid I wasn’t the most patient teacher back then.”

Sherlock shook his head, ready to protest. Mycroft had been far more patient than his busy parents had ever been. He’d helped Sherlock, had been there for him when he was struggling to make sense of keeping his pants clean. But Mycroft held up a hand to keep Sherlock from interrupting.

“I know you look back with fondness,” Mycroft said, again deducing Sherlock’s thoughts without the boy needing to voice them. “But I was little more than a child myself back then, and mistakes were certainly made. You should never have been made to feel that you were wrong for having accidents, string bean. You were just a little boy, and little boys have accidents. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, eyeing the pacifier once more as he rested his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“So I’m not in trouble?” he asked, pulling at his bottom lip, voice a bit uncertain.

Mycroft breathed a gentle laugh.

“That’s a bit of a different issue, kiddo,” he said. “You know the usual punishment for lying. Your Papa and I will discuss whether we feel that would be best for this situation. As for now, I want you to know that I will never be angry with you for having an accident, and Papa and I certainly aren’t going to make you put an ‘x’ on your chart if you do.”

Sherlock sat up, a bit in shock.

“You aren’t?” he asked 

Mycroft pushed the hair back out of Sherlock’s face. 

“No, sweetheart. That was never part of the plan. I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear to you.” 

“ ‘s okay,” Sherlock mumbled, exceedingly relieved. 

He reached for the pacifier on the table, but Mycroft picked it up first, holding up a finger to let him know they were almost finished. 

“One more question, bud,” he said. “Did you fib just now when you told me you went potty? Because, if I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing a rather full pull-up right now.” 

Sherlock blushed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, but he nodded. 

“Couldn’t get the knot undone in time,” he said. “I went in my pants by accident, but then I couldn’t tell because I didn't want anyone to know I put on a pull-up.” 

“Bud, you can wear a pull-up whenever you’d like to,” Mycroft explained. “Most kids wear them when potty training, and they aren’t in trouble for using one. Neither are you. You and your brother are welcome to use a pull-up at any time. But it’s never okay to lie to me or to your Papa, and I’m disappointed that there were an awful lot of lies told today.” 

“I’m sorry, My,” Sherlock said, head bowed. “Didn’t mean to be bad.”

“Hey,” Mycroft said, tipping Sherlock’s face up by the chin. “Listen to me. You are not bad, buddy. You made some bad decisions today, is all. Do you understand the difference?” 

Sherlock nodded, reaching forward to toy with the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt. 

“What if I can’t do it?” he asked. 

“Do what?” Mycroft asked, voice soft. 

“Fill up my chart with stickers like Bunny’s going to?”

Sherlock sniffled and blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears. He was supposed to be older than Bunny, the one to set a good example for his little brother. But right now the prospect of leading the charge in potty training seemed too large of an ordeal to handle. Right now all Sherlock wanted to do was sit in Mycroft’s lap with Dimitri and his pacifier and not think about being responsible.

“It’s not a contest, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said. “Little boys learn at different rates, no matter their age. It doesn’t matter whether you use the potty all the time and earn twenty stickers or whether you use your pull-ups or even your pants and get no stickers; your Papa and I will never love you any less.”

“Promise?” Sherlock asked, hopeful.

Mycroft nodded and guided Sherlock’s pacifier between the boy’s lips. 

“Promise,” he said.

They sat in the kitchen chair--Sherlock pressed against Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft running a hand up and down his back comfortingly--long enough that Papa and Bunny returned from their walk and began to get dinner ready, Bunny eager to be Papa’s helper. 

“‘Lockie,” Mycroft whispered as pans clattered behind them. “I think it’s best if we take a little break from potty training for the rest of the night, don’t you? I think you’re a bit too little right now to worry about using the loo.”

Sherlock whined in the back of his throat. 

“Not a baby,” he said, knowing what Mycroft was suggesting, but the words were more hesitant than argumentative. 

“Not usually, no,” Mycroft said, running his hand up Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his neck, still speaking softly into his ear. “But it’s been a long day, and you’ve been fighting against your littlest headspace since you woke up this morning, haven’t you, baby boy?”

Sherlock knew that Mycroft was right. He'd been having such a tough time shifting down into headspace because he wasn’t allowing himself the _right_ headspace, hadn’t acknowledged the small feelings that had been pricking the corners of his mind all day. Sherlock gave in at last, and, with a sigh, nodded against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Good boy,” Mycroft said, hoisting Sherlock into his arms as he stood. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you changed and ready for dinner, love.” 

And, as Sherlock was carried upstairs to be cleaned up and dressed in a diaper and his most comfortable pajamas, he felt the plaguing guilt shifting away. For the moment, all was strong hands and stuffed animals and the prospect of being fed a warm meal, and Sherlock was bundled up, content.


	6. A Little Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all so amazing with your comments and suggestions--thank you! It's been a stressful week, so I thought we could all use some cute fluff and lots of caring! I apologize for those of you waiting for Part 2 of 'Pushing Boundaries' over on tumblr--I was hoping to have that updated before the newest chapter of this story, but inspiration struck for this one and I ended up working on this instead. I will do my best to get back to 'Pushing Boundaries' as soon as possible, especially because I've officially reached 100 followers on tubmlr, which is super exciting!
> 
> Warnings for sex (fairly non-explicit, in my mind, but I'm not sure of everyone's tolerance levels) between Greg and Mycroft at the end of this chapter. 
> 
> I have a very clear idea of where I want the next few chapters to go, so I'm just hoping I'll have the time to write them this week! I'm in the midst of busy real-life things, however, so that comes first, I'm afraid.
> 
> Okay, enjoy! Thank you all for your lovely support <3

Dinner and its clean-up had run later than usual given the events leading up to it, but Greg had convinced Mycroft that a little more screen time for the day wouldn’t be the worst digression from his established rules, even if it did extend bedtime by a few minutes, citing the stress of the day and the appeal of a quiet, calming movie night for the kiddos before bedtime. Bunny had cheered when Mycroft agreed, and he immediately complied when asked to get ready for the movie by cleaning his teeth and putting on some pajamas, racing out of the kitchen with a nodding smile. 

“Don’t run on the stairs!” Greg called after the boy with an amused chuckle.

He turned to smile at Mycroft, who had not been able to let Sherlock off his lap without the boy whimpering and fussing since he’d gotten him to settle down in his youngest headspace. 

“Nothing that’s going to rile them up or give them nightmares,” Mycroft said with a quirked eyebrow, a hand absently running up and down Sherlock’s back as the boy tucked his face against Mycroft’s neck, sucking on the pacifier he had practically demanded as soon as Mycroft deemed he’d eaten enough for dinner. 

Greg, by Mycroft’s side as he wiped down the kitchen table with a wet rag, leaned over to kiss the man on his temple in acquiescence, humming agreement. 

It was not only Sherlock and John who’d been busy and preoccupied since their last ageplay session; Greg hadn’t had a chance to spend more than the occasional morning or evening with Mycroft in the past weeks’ hustles of work commitments. The men had, more often than not, been spending nights at their own apartments out of convenience and exhaustion, and Greg was looking forward to putting the kids to bed and having Mycroft all to himself in a few hours’ time.

“Let’s get your teeth cleaned, kiddo,” Greg said, reaching down to lift Sherlock from Mycroft in an attempt to give the man a bit of a break. 

Sherlock whined a bit, but Greg knew the boy would not turn down the opportunity to be carried, something Mycroft could only do for short periods of time but Greg had gotten quite skilled at. He placed Sherlock standing just long enough to turn him around and hoist him back into his arms, then carried the boy towards the stairs as Mycroft stood to stretch and rub the muscles of his thighs, sore from the length of time Sherlock had been curled up in his lap.

Sherlock was already dressed in pajamas, Mycroft having changed him into them when he’d brought the boy upstairs for a diaper change and what he’d later told Greg had been a quick rock in the rocking chair to settle him into headspace, but Greg knew Mycroft did not like the boys to skip cleaning their teeth. He carried the boy into the upstairs bathroom and perched him on the top of the sink cabinet as he reached for the baby’s alligator toothbrush.

“Can I pick the movie, Papa?” Bunny asked as he hurried into the bathroom after Greg, dressed in his Little Mermaid nightgown and reaching for his bunny toothbrush.

“We’ll see, little one,” Greg said as he doled out toothpaste to first Bunny and then Sherlock’s toothbrush. “Clean your teeth.” 

He turned back to Sherlock, who clearly wasn’t currently able to follow Bunny’s example by cleaning his own teeth. Greg tapped the bulb of the boy’s pacifier gently, and Sherlock, after whining in the back of his throat, released it from his lips. Greg slipped the pacifier into his pocket, then opened his own mouth wide to show Sherlock he should do the same. The boy obeyed, and Greg stood close to brush Sherlock’s teeth, beginning with the kid's bottom molars.

Beside him, Bunny mumbled around a mouthful of toothbrush and foaming toothpaste, looking towards Sherlock and then to Greg.

“I can’t hear you with your mouth full, champ” Greg said with a chuckle as he tilted Sherlock’s head back slightly to have better access to his top teeth. 

“I said, ‘We should pick a movie that won’t scare the baby,’” Bunny explained after he’d finished cleaning his teeth and had spit into the sink. 

Greg turned on the faucet for the boy, who began rinsing off his toothbrush, and nodded, smiling, as he helped Sherlock lean over the sink in order to spit out his own mouthful of toothpaste. 

“That’s a great idea, sweet boy,” Greg said, cupping the back of Bunny’s neck and then leaning to kiss the boy on the forehead. “I’m sure your little brother will appreciate that.”

Bunny beamed, as always pleased and pliable under well-earned praise.

“Try to use the potty before we head down, buddy,” Greg said.

Bunny stepped over to the toilet and, all modesty aside, yanked his undies down to his ankles and sat down to pee. Greg nodded at the boy, then pulled Sherlock’s pajama pants down a bit in order to snake a finger into the leg of the boy’s diaper for a quick check. It was still dry, so Greg passed the blinking boy his pacifier and shifted him back onto his hip as they waited for Bunny.

“Just a little bit, Papa,” Bunny said after a quick trickle of pee, standing to clumsily pull his underwear back up his legs once he’d finished. “Do I still get a sticker?”

“Of course, good boy,” Greg said, stepping over to flush the toilet. “But let’s put on a pull-up so that you’re all ready for bed before the movie, okay?”

Bunny paused in the washing of his hands and shook his head.

“Don’t need ‘em, Papa. I’m a big kid with five stickers on my potty chart.”

Greg bounced Sherlock on his hip as he contemplated Bunny’s pleading look. It was rare that John wet the bed, but it was not out of the realm of what could be expected from time to time. They’d gotten into the habit of dressing both boys in pull-ups while they slept, and it had saved them from wet sheets more than enough times to make Greg and Mycroft grateful for them. Greg certainly didn’t want to deal with any wet beds in the middle of the night tonight, and Bunny had asked for a refill of milk at dinner. Not to mention, when John did wet the bed, it was generally at the least expected moments, and rarely an intentional act on the man's part. He opened his mouth to tell Bunny it was best if he put a pull-up on just in case, but Bunny spoke first.

“Please, Papa?” Bunny asked, the kid’s eyes wide and hopeful. “I’ll be good. I won’t wee in the bed, I promise promise promise.” 

Sherlock, concerned at the moment with nothing outside of his own comfort, turned his head into Greg’s neck. The boy was not doing much by way of helping Greg hold him, legs dangling instead of wrapped around Greg’s waist in the way they had learned stabilized them both, but Greg was just happy the boy had finally settled down, content to see the boy obviously reveling in being held. He bounced the boy a bit to shift Sherlock higher up on his hip. It had taken nearly an entire day for Greg to find himself with two cheerfully relaxed kids, something Greg knew would dissipate were he to deny Bunny his request. 

He sighed, knowing he may very well have Mycroft to answer to later if things went south.

“Alright, Bun,” he said. “I’ll trust you to make the decision this time.”

After all, the boy had done exceedingly well with potty training up to that point. Greg had been a bit surprised, if he were honest. Given that John had suggested potty training in order to diminish the guilt he felt over accidents and given the way Mycroft had surmised that potty training would be the opportunity John needed to explore more of the comfort--and, at times, arousal--he received from wetting, Greg had been expecting lots of wet pants and soaked pull-ups. It seemed, however, that the boy was basking in the praise he’d been receiving from potty training success, happy and confident in the stickers on his chart. Greg just had to hope that desire for success and praise would get them through the night. 

Bunny smiled widely and stepped forward to wrap Greg--and, because he was cuddled in Greg’s arms, Sherlock--in a spontaneous hug, thanking him again and again.

Greg chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. The kid was too cute for his own good.

“Ready for movie night, champ?” Greg asked, holding out a hand for Bunny.

But the boy hesitated, suddenly dropping his eyes and looking a bit shy.

“Papa?” he asked.

“What is it, buddy?”

Bunny shifted a bit where he stood, and his voice was timid when he spoke.

“I maybe don’t want to be ‘buddy’ right now,” he said, fiddling with the hem of his nightgown. “Or ‘champ.’”

Greg was disappointed in himself. He should have realized that Bunny’s choice of pajamas may be a sign of the kid’s gender identity at the moment. He knew it was difficult for Bunny to speak up when he was not feeling like their little boy; Greg should have been a bit more observant.

“I’m sorry for not noticing, kiddo,” he said, setting Sherlock back onto the sink counter so that he could give Bunny his full attention. He was grateful the baby was easily distracted by the plastic frog bath toy he handed him, the one closest at hand. He placed both hands on Bunny’s shoulders and pulled the kid in for a hug. “Thank you for telling me.” 

Bunny nodded. But, when Greg released Bunny from the hug, the little one was a bit weepy. It was not surprising. After all, they’d only recently been navigating Bunny’s shifting gender identity, and Greg knew Bunny was still a bit overwhelmed by it all. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” Greg said, wanting nothing more than to make things right for the kid again. 

Bunny shrugged, pulling at their bottom lip.

“Don’t feel like a boy,” they mumbled.

“Not a problem,” Greg said, smiling in encouragement. “Would you like to be Papa and Daddy’s princess tonight?” 

Bunny shrugged again, and new tears filled his eyes before he shook his head.

“Don’t feel like a girl, either,” he said. 

Greg wiped the tears from the Bunny’s cheeks and pulled them close to him in another hug. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that Bunny was potentially in the midst of shifting gender headspaces, not comfortable as a boy and yet not yet ready to be a girl.

“That’s perfectly alright,” he said over Bunny’s head. “You can just be Bunny tonight, Papa and Daddy’s brave kiddo. How does that sound?”

Bunny sniffled and nodded into Greg’s chest.

“Okay, Papa.” 

Greg rubbed Bunny’s back and waited for the tears to abate. 

“Ready to go downstairs?” he asked when Bunny was calmed. “You, my little one, have a sticker to put on your chart and a movie to choose.”

Bunny sniffled again, then giggled when Greg gently tickled their side, nodding that they were ready. Greg hefted Sherlock onto his hip once more--allowing him to keep the plastic frog in order to prevent a strop--and took Bunny’s hand to guide him downstairs to the living room. Greg could see that Mycroft was impatient, that he thought Greg had taken far too much time with the kids to make watching a movie before bedtime even marginally feasible, but Greg somehow communicated through a look that he was sorry and that there were circumstances out of his control, and Mycroft settled. 

Bunny immediately stepped close to Mycroft, who, clearly recognizing the kid’s red-rimmed eyes, gathered them close and began running fingers through their hair. The kids’ favorite stuffies had been gathered and placed on the couch, and Bunny reached for Willa, tucking her under an arm. 

“Everything okay, Bun?” Mycroft asked as the kid pressed themself close, and Bunny nodded, slipping a thumb into their mouth.

Mycroft glanced at Greg as if needing confirmation, and Greg provided it with a nod, again communicating through little more than a look and a quick hand gesture that he’d explain everything later. He would intervene were Mycroft to refer to Bunny as gendered one way or the other, but, for now, as Mycroft took a seat on the couch and allowed Bunny to curl up on his lap, he could see that their currently oldest child was content. 

“Pacifier?” Mycroft said over Bunny’s head as he caught Greg’s eye, barely more than a mouthing of words, and Greg, nodding, carried Sherlock into the kitchen where he knew there was a package of new pacifiers in the cabinet. Bunny’s favorite pacifiers were upstairs, but it was perhaps best that he get the kid a new one, as Bunny tended to favor one or the other of his stand-bys depending on gender. Greg found a white pacifier with green stars on it, what looked to be the least gendered in the package, and carried it back to the living room. 

“They’re not going to last very long,” Mycroft said, flicking his gaze from Bunny, who was knuckling their eyes, to Sherlock, who was already half-asleep on Greg’s shoulder. 

Mycroft gently pulled Bunny’s thumb from out of their mouth and held the pacifier to their lips; the kid accepted it immediately.

“Maybe we should try for movie night another time,” he said. 

“No, Daddy! I’m ‘wake,” Bunny said at once, sitting up and once again rubbing at their eye. “Wanna movie!”

Greg breathed a laugh as Mycroft glanced at the kid skeptically. 

“You heard the little one,” Greg said, smirking. “We wanna movie!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, smirking at his boyfriend’s mimicry, but flicked on the telly and began scrolling through their movie options until he found something appropriately young and colorful. He passed Greg the baby bottle of juice he had prepared earlier, then helped Bunny switch their pacifier for a sippy cup. It was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock, tilted against the armrest as Greg fed him his juice from the bottle, was asleep. Bunny was not far behind, dozing against Mycroft’s chest almost as soon as his sippy cup was empty, after less than half an hour of the film. 

“See? Asleep before bedtime,” Greg teased when the kids were breathing gently. “Just what you wanted.”

“Only just,” Mycroft said, glancing to the clock as he turned down the volume on the telly. Experience had taught them that turning it off completely might wake the kids.

“I’ll bring up the baby,” Greg said, carefully shifting Sherlock so that he could carry him up the stairs. “Give me a moment and I’ll come back to help you with Bunny.”

Mycroft generally had little trouble carrying John if the kid was awake enough to hold on tight and wrap their arms around Mycroft’s waist, but Greg knew that Mycroft would currently have a bit of trouble given Bunny’s sleepy, relaxed state. Hell, Greg was even having trouble maneuvering Sherlock at the moment.

“I help, Daddy,” Bunny mumbled, still half-asleep but shifting a bit to wrap arms and legs around Mycroft in a way that meant Mycroft could easily stand with the kid and follow Greg upstairs. 

In mere moments, the kids were tucked into their beds with stuffies and baby blankets and pacifiers, night lights were lit, and foreheads were kissed. It had been a long, tiresome day, and Greg took Mycroft’s hand to lead him down the hallway to their bedroom. 

“Thank god they’re asleep,” he said in a whisper once they’d made sure the light in the hallway loo was on for the kids and had closed themselves in Mycroft’s bedroom.

Greg pulled Mycroft close, a hand behind the man’s ear as he pressed his lips against Mycroft’s. He fumbled to unbutton the man’s shirt as they made their way to the bed, and was suddenly conscious of just how eagerly he’d been waiting for this moment, conscious of how much his teasing throughout the day had been poorly disguised flirting.

“Have you been thinking about me?” Greg asked in the midst of snogging, enjoying the image of Mycroft fantasizing about Greg when they were unable to be together.

Mycroft pushed Greg against the mattress and, after stripping him of his t-shirt, straddled him and found his gasping mouth once more.

“Not at all,” Mycroft said as he pulled away to begin unbuttoning Greg’s jeans, but the quickness of his movements said otherwise. 

He paused in undressing Greg only to trail his tongue and lips along the man’s stomach, sending the Detective Inspector into stifled laughter when his most ticklish spots were found. They were breathless even before they were naked, hands roving and bodies pressing against each other, thrusting in desperate need. 

It was Mycroft who gave in, impatient and unable to go a moment longer without yanking Greg’s boxer briefs down his legs. His arousal didn’t stop him from teasing Greg a bit about the precum stain at the crotch, however, and Greg found himself suddenly pink-cheeked, nevermind the fact that Mycroft’s boxers were likely in the same state. It had been over two weeks since they’d been able to coordinate time for sex.

Greg let Mycroft take control, and there was a content satisfaction in giving in to the moment, registering nothing but the closeness of Mycroft and the smell of his skin, the arousal and the intimacy and the welcome stimulation. 

Mycroft bit back a moan and called out when he gave in at last, and Greg was not far behind him, gasping at the release as he collapsed against the mattress and groaned into a pillow. 

“Quiet,” Mycroft said, smirking through his ragged breath as he bodily turned Greg over and, propping himself up with hands beside each of Greg’s shoulders, bent to kiss him. “You’ll wake the kids.”


	7. A Not-so-Little Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! I hope you're all doing well. It's been a really rough week on my end, but I'm so glad to be able to get you all a new chapter. Warnings for angst, war flashbacks, and mentions of PTSD. If anyone has advice on more accurately portraying PTSD nightmares, I'd welcome the guidance. Comments in general would be lovely, as always :)
> 
> Stay strong, lovelies--you're all (all!) intelligent, lovely beings who are valued and worthwhile! 
> 
> xoxox

Bunny woke with a gasp, the swirling remnants of a nightmare casting a haze of fallen men, flashing lights glinting on sharp objects, and muddy, trampled fields into the darkness of his bedroom. He could hear rain through the half-opened bedroom window, and fumbled beneath the sheets until he found Willa and pulled her into his arms. The bedroom was dark and claustrophobic—Papa and Daddy has forgotten to turn on the nightlight by the door, and his heart beat fast in his throat as he gasped and willed away the heaviness in his chest. His breath was ragged with uncertainty as his eyes filled with tears and blurred the still-looming images of a battlefield thick with blood. 

“Papa?” He said into the darkness as he sniffled. “Daddy?”

But he knew his voice was too quiet, throat tight as tears spilled onto his cheeks. He was afraid of being too loud; it felt as if he were still within his dream, as if moments and figures were lurking. There was something--or someone--camped out beneath his bed, a carry-over image still threatening.

He hugged his knees to his chest and cried, unsuccessful at keeping himself silent and beyond the notice of the nightmare creature perched beneath the bed. He became more and more panicked that it was waiting for him to step off the bed, that it was waiting to grab his ankle and yank him close, and the more he tried to keep from crying, the more he cried. The monster would brandish his jagged, twisted flash of a knife and bring him back to the darker world he had once known. 

The wind blew aside the curtain on the window, and in the room’s shifting shadows Bunny saw something crawling on its belly to peek out from beneath the bed. He screamed. 

He was crying harder now, blubbering almost to the point of not being unable to breathe, and a second later he could feel his pants getting wet as he peed in his bed, urine streaming to puddle beneath him despite his shocked, grasping attempts to stem the flow. It was warm against his skin, and he was knew the creature could tell what was happening, was smirking at how pathetic and babyish Bunny was being by wetting in his big boy pants and his bed. _Some soldier_ , the thing taunted. He could hear it breathing a chortling laugh as he sat, soaked to the skin in quickly-cooling urine. 

What if the creature got tired of waiting and decided to snatch Bunny right out of bed? What if the thing with sunken eyes and decaying skin stole him away from Daddy and Papa and Sherlock, crawling on all fours as he pulled him away? Bunny wailed. 

“Bun? What’s wrong, baby?” It was Daddy, suddenly in the doorway and flicking on the overhead light before hurrying towards the bed at the center of the room. 

Bunny reached for him as he choked on sobs. It only took Daddy a moment after he’d lifted Bunny—undies and nightshirt dripping—from the puddle on the bed to understand that he was wet. He set Bunny in front of him once he realized.

“Okay, don’t worry, ladybug,” he said, squeezing Bunny’s shoulders and smiling down at him for reassurance. “We’ll get you all cleaned up. Just an accident, love.” 

But Bunny grasped at Daddy’s arms when he was set on the floor, yelling unintelligibly about the creature, whom he anticipated was about to shoot a bony hand to grab him from beneath the bed. He tried to scramble-climb up Daddy, but he held him back so he could look into his eyes with worry and continue to tell him to breathe and not to worry, clearly concerned. 

Bunny pulled away from him and hurried back onto the bed. He didn’t have the words to tell Daddy that he needed to be held right now, and if Daddy wasn’t going to pick him up then it was safer to be on the bed, away from the monster’s grasp. The plastic sheet had kept the liquid from sinking down into the mattress, so the cooling puddle of urine made his legs feel icky with wee when he crawled back into it, but anything was better than being pulled under the bed and being eaten alive. 

Daddy came to realize that Bunny was in no state to care about getting cleaned up at the moment, could see that Bunny’s tears were about far more than a wet bed. 

“Come here, brave boy,” he said, sitting on the end of the bed and opening his arms so that Bunny could scramble into his lap. A bit of urine hadn’t hurt either of them in the past, and, even if it had, at the moment Bunny could not think twice about cuddling as close as possible to Daddy. “I’ve got you, baby. It’s alright. Daddy’s here.” 

Daddy rubbed his back as Bunny cried against his shoulder, mumbling, legs tucked beneath himself to keep his feet and ankles free from the scary monster’s grip. 

“My?”

It was Sherlock, rubbing at an eye with one fist as he stood in the doorway connecting the boys’ bedrooms. Bunny didn’t know how long Sherlock had been standing there watching, but he yelled at him to go back to bed. What if the creature turned for Sherlock next? Bunny was gasping and yelling as Mycroft attempted to calm him, and Sherlock, not understanding, began to cry, too.

“There’s a monster soldier under the bed,” Bunny whispered into Daddy’s ear between sniffling tears. “Don’t let it snatch Sherlock, Daddy. Please, please!” 

Daddy cupped the back of his neck to hug him close as he told him it would all go away soon. Bunny tried to believe him, grateful that Daddy never told him it was _only a dream_. The images of warzones and battlefields were far from dreams; they were memories. 

“Go and wake your Papa, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said over Bunny’s mumbling fears. 

But the commotion had clearly been loud enough to have caused Papa concern, because he was suddenly in the bedroom, crossing to heft a tearful little Sherlock into his arms.

“I’m awake,” Papa said, glancing over at Daddy and Bunny as he bounced Sherlock to soothe him. “It’s okay, kiddo. Bunny had a bad dream but everyone’s safe, now.” 

Bunny felt as if he were _still having_ a bad dream. He was gasping for breath around the phantom weight settled heavily on his chest, afraid that, together in one room, they were all in reach of the monster’s clutches. But Daddy was strong and calm, speaking softly. With a sympathetic glance towards Bunny and a nod towards Daddy, Papa brought Sherlock out of the bedroom and into the hallway, headed in the direction of the Master bedroom.

“You’re safe, now,” Daddy was saying once they were alone. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby.”

Daddy breathed in and out to show Bunny how to do it, too, counting to four as he took a breath in, then continuing to eight as he breathed out. His arms were strong and supportive around his back, and Bunny felt the first hints of safety as the nightmare’s images began to recede.

“You’re here in your room, now,” Daddy whispered. “You’re safe, love bug.” 

And Bunny at last knew Daddy was right, because the shapes of the room began to get softer and the tight fear stopped choking him with its threatening squeals. He felt the weight on his chest lightening as the image of the monster fell away, and he was at last able to breathe normally. 

“Good boy,” Daddy said as John’s heartbeat began to calm. “Very good.” 

They had been through this before: the twisted memories of the trauma John had seen on the battlefield, the suffocating nightmares. All a part of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, his therapist had long-ago explained, the nightmares a symptom just like his anxiety and dislike of enclosed spaces. But the nightmares generally happened while he was fully adult; they were usually kept at bay by the contented calm of his younger headspace. It was almost worse when they happened while he was little, because they never failed to remind him of the deepest pains of his adult life, shifting him far too quickly up in age and leaving him rather unmoored. John slipped out of headspace as he slipped away from the bloody, horrifying images. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly awkward. He slid from Mycroft’s lap and dragged himself closer to the head of the bed, careful to avoid the dark wet patch of the sheets. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Mycroft clucked his tongue.

“None of that, now,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve talked about this before. No apologizing for what’s out of your control.”

“I’m not young, Mycroft,” John mumbled half-heartedly, consciously attempting to ignore the state of his bed and underwear, the tears and the runny nose he wiped with his palms and the backs of his wrists.

“I know, kid,” Mycroft said, reaching and gently guiding John, who was too emotionally drained to do anything but comply, back towards him. “That doesn’t matter.”

Mycroft wrapped an arm around him, and John’s face fell once more. He gave in to the lingering tears, head falling sideways to rest against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft supported him, telling him again and again that he was safe, allowing John the time that he needed to process and recover from the nightmare.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked after some time.

John shook his head, and was grateful when Mycroft didn’t insist. At times, discussing the nightmares allowed John a sense of control over them, but, at the moment, the dark images were too close, too likely to return were he to mention them. 

“Can I help you clean up?”

John knew he should refuse; he was a grown man. It would be some time before he’d even be able to consider slipping back into headspace. But he and Mycroft had been through this before, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was a comfort in knowing he would not be left alone. If he told Mycroft to leave, he would curl up on the floor with a blanket and force himself to stay awake until morning, too exhausted to clean himself up and too terrified of the reappearance of images to allow himself to rest. He knew because it had all happened before, long before he’d begun ageplaying.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled. 

“Good boy,” Mycroft said, patting John’s thigh to signal to him that he needed to get up from the bed so that they could get started. 

John could not find the energy to tell him off for the praise or the childish endearment. He knew Mycroft meant well, that he could not help but see John for what he was after his worst nightmares: vulnerable and a bit broken. There was a way in which ageplay carried over into their adult relationships, and it had recently become increasingly clear that Mycroft viewed John as a second younger brother, as much perpetually child in his eyes as was Sherlock. It was frustrating, particularly when he treated John gently when they happened to be in public, but John supposed it was rather inevitable given the way he depended on Mycroft while in headspace, given the way he’d been unable to keep his insecurities tucked away. 

John stood up from the bed with Mycroft’s help, and the wet hem of the nightgown fell to stick to his legs above the knees. He was too spent to to anything but wait for Mycroft to take charge.

“Arms up,” the man said.

Mycroft stripped him of the nightshirt when he complied, tossing the soiled garment into the laundry hamper before turning back to John, who could not keep from shifting where he stood as he waited for Mycroft's next instructions. He was very conscious of that fact that he was naked except for the wet cartoon briefs clinging to his hips. 

“Will you let me draw you a bath?” Mycroft asked.

John, after only a moment’s hesitation, nodded. 

He followed Mycroft to the loo, waited patiently beside him as the man fiddled with tub taps until the temperature was right, then allowed himself to be led back into his bedroom while Mycroft found some of his least childish clothing: soft grey joggers and a white t-shirt. He was relieved that Mycroft hadn’t left him alone in the loo. Whether adult or child, flashback nightmares left him reeling, afraid of his own mind. 

“Would you prefer a pull-up or briefs?” Mycroft asked as he opened the top drawer of the bureau after gathering the other items of clothing.

John turned to glare at Mycroft, cheeks pinking despite the angry hunching of his shoulders . 

“I told you I’m not a child, Mycroft,” he said. 

Mycroft’s voice was even and gentle.

“That wasn’t the question, kid,” he said. “Would prefer a pull-up or briefs?”

Mycroft was holding a pull-up in one hand and a pair of dark briefs in the other. John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but Mycroft did not acknowledge his little tantrum. He simply stood his ground, the picture of patience and silent support. It was clear he would wait for as long as John needed to make a decision.

John did not deliberate for long. He had worn pull-ups from time to time while adult, particularly because Sherlock was well aware that they were of interest to an adult John for an entirely different reason than they were to the child Bunny. But this was not about arousal; it was about safety, about comfort. He cleared his throat and, running a hand along the back of his neck, nodded towards the pull-up before casting his eyes down to the floor. At least he hadn’t had to say it out loud. 

“Well chosen,” Mycroft said, a comment John pointedly ignored.

The tub was nearly filled by the time they made their way back into the loo. John was stripped of his now cold and itching briefs, made to step out of them as Mycroft bent to tug them off. He was helped into the tub, and John was grateful Mycroft didn’t even give him the option of washing himself. The older man simply picked up a flannel, soaped it, and began running it along John’s shoulders and back in tight circles. John allowed himself to be maneuvered, chewing at his lip but finding small moments of comfort when he could forget the shame that came from being a grown man in an adult headspace being bathed. Mycroft did not speak beyond giving instructions to help facilitate washing, likely a deliberate choice which gave John the opportunity to concentrate on the process rather than the participants. The quiet of the room--only interrupted by the splashing or trickling sounds of bathwater and the rain hitting gently against the window panes--was grounding. 

"All done," Mycroft said after a time. 

Hair cleaned and body scrubbed, Mycroft told John to stand up, then helped him step out of the tub and onto the bathmat. He wrapped a towel around him, one of the large ones they used to help John and Sherlock feel small, then ran his hands up and down John’s covered arms to keep him warm. 

“Need the loo?” Mycroft asked.

John shook his head, then stepped into the pull-up Mycroft held out for him. He was dressed quickly, joggers pulled up over the pull-up--which had calmed him far more than he'd ever imagined--and shirt whisked down over his head. He was still unable to shake the waves of shame which came over him whenever he thought too hard about what was happening, but he was clean and dry at long last, and there was at least some peace in that. 

“Guest bedroom or Master bedroom?” Mycroft asked after he’d towelled John’s hair a bit. 

John hesitated. He was tired of making decisions, and wished he could make himself feel small again so that it wouldn’t be awkward and unimaginable to be taken into Mycroft and Greg’s bed. But his mind was too wired, anxiety already overtaking the momentary distractions of the warm bath and the pull-up; he was always plagued by shame after his worst nightmares--and by feelings of inadequacy. The doubts were simply waiting for their chance, and John was not sure he could bear anyone else being witness to his struggle.

“Guest room,” he said, self-assured in his decision. 

Mycroft hummed in a way that betrayed his displeasure but led John from the loo and down the hallway to the sparse guest bedroom. John stood with a hand on the doorknob while Mycroft entered the room and turned down the bed. 

“Would you like me to stay for a time?” Mycroft asked. “I can bring in a chair.” 

John shook his head. His adult mind was stubborn; it always won out after the memories of war returned. 

“Thanks for your help,” John said, voice crisp. “Goodnight.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, sighed, and left the guest bedroom.

“If you need anything...,” he said, turning back. 

“Goodnight,” John repeated with a curt nod as he closed the door decisively. 

And then he was alone, collapsed on the bed and willing his heart rate to stop racing. There was no telling how long he would be trapped with his own thoughts, no telling how long it might be before the room would be lightened by sunrise. But at least he was behind closed doors; at least his weakness was hidden. 

\----

He was unsure how much longer he could wait out the rising panic, unsure if he could remain stoic and strong among the lingering images of death and chaos. He had been huddled alone with his worst thoughts for hours, and it suddenly became too much all at once. John could not breathe. Rationally, he knew he had worked himself inadvertently into a panic attack, but practically, he felt that he was about to die. 

He scrambled from the bed. He didn’t know what he needed, didn’t know how to stop this current bout of uncontrollable fear and overwhelming anxiety. In a fit of desperation, he pulled open the bedroom door, and suddenly he wasn’t alone. Mycroft met his eye and climbed to his feet from where he had been sitting on the floorboards, resting against the wall across from the bedroom door.

He didn’t have time to process what it meant that Mycroft had not gone back to bed but had instead waited outside the room in case he needed him. A part of John would later realize that the plush rabbit he was so fond of while Bunny was beside Mycroft on the floor, as if Mycroft wanted to be prepared for either of John’s headspaces. For the moment, the rabbit remained abandoned, and all John could do was allow his shoulders to be grasped by Mycroft. The taller man stepped close and spoke calmly and pragmatically, leading John in guided breathing and explaining again and again that he was safe.

John was unaware just how long the panic attack lasted. But eventually Mycroft’s steady, unending counting and his practiced tone became prominent over the flashbacks and agitation, and John, exhausted and gasping for breath, collapsed to the floor at his feet. Mycroft was beside him in a moment, arm wrapped around his shoulder protectively. 

They sat breathing together until John was well enough to stand. Mycroft led him back to the guest bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed, told John to lay down, and began rubbing John’s back. He told him he was safe, told him he was not alone. The plush rabbit was placed beside John’s pillow, and John jerkily reached to tuck it under his arm, hiding the blush spreading across his cheeks by shifting deeper into the sheets and blankets. 

“You don’t need to be little to deserve comfort, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said.

John was a soldier and a doctor, a man who had survived his childhood and gotten himself through med school on his own, who had been in battle and had made a life for himself, needing no one. But the words soothed a bit of his shame, and John concentrated on the pattern Mycroft traced along his back. He told himself he was simply too tired to ask Mycroft to leave, and it was an adequate excuse for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read Part 2 of Pushing Boundaries, it's up over on [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> Also, thanks so much for all your love on my other stories--Weekend at the Lake is now up to over 20,000 hits!


	8. A Little Morning Mischief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to keep you all waiting, loves! It's been a busy summer but I'm hoping updates will be a bit more consistent in the near future and as we head into the fall (so ready for cooler weather!). I'm also hoping to get a few more one-shot ficlets up on tumblr sometime soon, since it seems like people are enjoying them over there, which I'm grateful for!
> 
> This chapter took an interesting few turns that I wasn't expecting, so I'll be interested to hear your thoughts. I've been in a strange mindset myself for the past week or so, so I think that may have impacted the writing this time around.  
> In any case, constructive criticism is always welcome! 
> 
> Warnings for lots of angst (remember when I said this story in the series was going to be primarily fluff? Apparently I'm incapable of that...), diaper play (sort of? nothing sexually explicit), misbehaving Sherlock, and some dominant Mycroft humiliation, so if any of that is not your cup of tea, hang tight until we get back to the potty training storyline in the next chapter or two.
> 
> Let me know if you have any suggestions for future chapters--I have a few from all of you that I'm still planning to add in when I can! 
> 
> Hope you're all well and thank you all so, so much for your support and kind words after each update! I seriously have the most amazing readers! :)
> 
> *NOTE: Edited after I initially posted because I realized I wanted to include John's morning as well! Some of you have mentioned wanting to learn more about John's background/upbringing. A bit of it was included in 'Settling In,' but I thought it was a great idea to explore that a bit more, so you get some hints in the newly added John sections. Let me know if you'd like to see more of this (I know it's not exactly canon, so I have mixed feelings).

Sherlock woke up in Mycroft and Papa’s room, remembering Bunny’s nightmare in the middle of the night as the reason he wasn’t in his own bed. 

Papa had brought Sherlock back to the big bed to calm him down after Bunny’s screaming fit, had rubbed Sherlock’s back until he’d shrugged away from touch. Sherlock knew Bunny needed Mycroft and that he had to share, but Sherlock needed him, too. He needed him to give hugs and say everything was okay after such a scary middle-of-the-night wake-up. But Mycroft did not come back to the big bed, and, finally--after Papa had rationalized and soothed--Sherlock had begrudgingly rolled over, given into the yawns, and gone to sleep. 

Sherlock scrubbed sleep from the corner of an eye. He felt a little older than he’d been the night before, somewhere between his youngest self and his usual baseline of seven or eight. His slightly older headspace meant he was more capable of speech, but it also meant he was more attuned to the frustration he felt over finding only Papa in bed with him. 

Papa had told him Mycroft would be there when he woke up. He’d promised. 

Sherlock huffed, then pushed his stuffed alligator between his legs. He always had to wee badly when he woke up, and he knew he should get out of bed and use the potty like a big boy. But gyrating on the plush toy and the bulk of his already-wet diaper made his tummy feel fluttery in a good way, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to behave like a cooperating, easy kid that morning. 

Papa was snoring softly on his side of the mattress.

“Papa?” Sherlock asked, sitting up on his knees so he could lean close and whisper into Papa’s ear. “Are you sleeping?”

Sherlock liked the way the wet diaper hung heavy on his hips. If he’d been wearing one of the boring bedwetter pull-ups, it would already have leaked onto the sheets. But the diapers Mycroft made Sherlock wear when he was too young to use the potty could usually handle more than one wetting. Checking once more that Papa was still asleep, Sherlock sat back on his heels and spread his legs, stifling a giggle at the prospect of purposely wetting himself. 

But then Papa was stirring, rubbing at his eyes as he cleared his throat, and Sherlock was forced to press a palm against the front of his diaper as he dove back under the sheets, shifting his hips until his alligator was back between his legs to help him hold in the wee. 

\----

John was jerked awake by a feeling that he was being watched. He immediately sat up and reached to pull open the drawer of his bedside table, feeling around for his gun before realizing that he was not in his room at Baker Street, and that it was Mycroft who had been watching him, Mycroft who was currently approaching him from where he’d been seated.

“You’re alright,” he said, grasping John by both shoulders to stabilize him. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

John released the breath he’d been holding, chest suddenly heaving as he took in air and attempted to steady his racing heartbeat. He let himself fall back against the pillows, scrubbing a hand down his face to ground himself. 

“Sorry,” he said, voice a bit croaky from sleep. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft was seated on the edge of the bed, and John tried not to focus on the awkwardness he felt now that the morning was shedding light on the events of the night before. He had fallen out of headspace but had still allowed himself to be bathed and brought to bed by Mycroft. He had fallen out of headspace but had still asked to be dressed in a--thankfully, still dry--pull-up. Mycroft had seen him have a panic attack, and John had let him rub his back until he’d fallen back to sleep. John was slowly learning not to be embarrassed by what happened during ageplay sessions, but there was no way he could forgive himself for the childish behavior he’d exhibited while fully adult.

\---- 

“G’morning, champ,” Papa said, angling his head towards Sherlock, who was glaring up at him, face half-covered by a sheet. Papa had lied to him. 

Sherlock hoped his jiggling about would be misconstrued as excess morning energy, but Papa seemed not to be fooled. Sherlock tried to squirm away from the diaper check, removing his hands from his crotch to push Papa’s away, but Papa was quick. He squeezed a palmful of wet diaper before Sherlock could stop him.

“Not wet,” Sherlock said, a half-hearted attempt now that he knew he’d been found out.

Papa chuckled.

“I’m not so sure about that, kiddo,” he said, reaching to tossle Sherlock’s hair. “But, judging by a certain squirmy little boy, I’d say someone could use the potty right about now.”

Sherlock shook his head. He knew Papa had only wanted him to fall asleep and get rest last night, but he’d told him Mycroft would be there in the morning, and now he wasn’t. Mycroft had been with Bunny all night. What about him?

“Don’t have to,” Sherlock said, turning his face into a rogue pillow and only glancing up at Papa from one eye. “Leave me ‘lone.” 

“Come on, grumpy boy,” Papa said with the breath of a laugh, ignoring Sherlock’s fib and pushing up onto his elbows as he reached to gently tickle Sherlock’s sides. “Let’s get you to the loo.”

Sherlock had had enough. He yanked his body away from Papa’s touch, flailing to kick at Papa and reaching out to hit his arms away. 

“No!” he said, voice defiant and angry. “Go away. You lied and I want Mycroft!” 

He was wiggling about frantically, too focused on pushing Papa away and rutting into his wet diaper in his attempt to hold in his wee to realize he would be in big trouble for hitting and kicking.

“William Sherlock Scott,” Papa said, voice serious where it had been previously lighthearted. “We do not hit and we do not kick.” 

Sherlock whined in the back of his throat, but stilled his body until he was doing little more than shifting his hips back and forth against the mattress. There were tears behind his eyelids, but he pressed his face hard into the pillow to make them stay put. If he cried, Papa would soothe and shush and ask him questions about feelings that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to answer without letting the thoughts and the questions pricking at the corners of his mind out into the open. They were the same questions he’d had after first learning Mycroft was Bunny’s Daddy: lingering questions about betrayal, about favorites. 

\----

John cleared his throat and sat up in bed.

“Mycroft, I--”

“--John,” Mycroft said, holding a hand up to stop the man from speaking further. “There’s no need to discuss unless you’d like to. I told you last night: you don’t need to be little to accept comfort.”

John could feel his cheeks pinking at Mycroft’s allusions to the previous night. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, clearing his throat once more. It was all well and good for Mycroft to pass everything off so cavalierly, but John could not help but feel plagued by the shame of it all. He was a soldier, and soldiers didn’t need coddling. What would Sherlock think if he found out John had let Mycroft bathe him while he was fully adult? What would Greg think? 

“I, ah...yeah,” John fumbled, suddenly plagued with thoughts of his father--his gruff, no-nonsense, unforgiving father who had teased him for a ‘momma’s boy’ when a seven-year-old John had come crying to his mother with a skinned knee and chin after toppling over the handlebars of his bike. “It’s fine.” 

John could tell that Mycroft was analyzing him, deducing his inner conflict and attempting to gauge whether to push him towards a conversation or allow him to process on his own. 

“It’s fine,” John said again.

Mycroft did not look convinced. 

\----

“Look at me, kid,” Papa said.

Had it been Mycroft, Sherlock would have disobeyed and misbehaved until his brother had no choice but to prove that he cared by taking him over his knee and settling him into submission. But Papa operated on a different set of expectations, and Sherlock had long since come to understand that Papa could not fulfill the same role as Mycroft in his care.

At the moment, Papa’s voice was so calm and grounded that Sherlock found himself unable to do anything but obey.

He could feel his control over his bladder slipping despite the fact that he was kneading at his crotch, and gasped into the pillow when he thought he may have leaked into the thick diaper. But he ignored the threat of an accident, sniffled, and turned his face towards Papa, making tentative eye contact. 

“Good boy,” Papa said, but Sherlock sneered and turned his face away with a whine. 

Couldn’t Papa see that he didn’t need praise right now? He needed to be put in his place. He needed someone to call him pathetic and to tell him he was too old to squirm around like a toddler to keep from pissing himself, someone to help him keep his mind from wandering to fears and doubts creeping from down the hallway, where Mycroft had been taking care of Bunny all night instead of him. 

“Okay, okay,” Papa said when he realized the effect his soft words had on Sherlock. “I’m sorry, bud. I’ll, ah…”

Papa was floundering. Sherlock needed Mycroft before he broke down completely under the weight of the bad thoughts. He needed to be talked down to, he needed to be shoved deeper into headspace. 

“Sherlock, let’s get you to the loo, at least,” Papa said, clearly attempting to tackle the issue he could most easily handle at the moment. “We don’t want an accident.”

Papa was far too concerned for Sherlock’s liking, not comfortable wielding dominating power in the way Mycroft was. He needed Papa to speak harshly, like he had when Sherlock had hit and kicked. But Papa only punished when it was earned, spoke with authority only when rules were broken or misbehaviors tallied; if Sherlock was going to elicit more discipline from Papa, his only choice was to get in more trouble. 

He was breathing heavily when he turned to look at Papa, eyebrows furrowed. He crawled out from under the sheets, climbed up onto his knees, and, staring Papa in the face, started to wee into his already sodden diaper. 

He could feel the gel of the diaper--previously cold from his nighttime wee--warming as he began to soak himself, urine streaming along the front of the diaper before spreading down towards his bum. It was a relief to release the heaviness of his bladder, a relief to hear the audible hiss as liquid gushed to pool in the sagging crotch of the disposable before being absorbed. 

Papa’s body stilled and his eyes widened. He clearly knew what Sherlock was doing.

“Sherlock,” he said.

Papa’s voice was shocked and frustrated. A far cry from Mycroft’s most degrading tones, but at least well removed from his own generally calm, supportive demeanor. 

“I couldn’t hold it,” Sherlock mumbled.

His brain was fuzzy from the fib and the disappointment on Papa’s face and the funny excitement of the diaper’s growing bulk between his legs. He pushed the wee as fast as he could into the diaper, pleased when he felt a trickle escape from the leghole and begin to wet a patch of his dinosaur pajama pants, soiling his clothes and making his accident messier. 

Sherlock reached to feel the wetness spreading down his thigh even as he kept defiant eye contact with Papa. The naughtiness settled his mind a bit, had coaxed a pseudo-disciplinarian out of Papa. But he knew the effect would not last long if someone didn’t take charge. 

\----

“Should we, ah,” John stuttered. “Should we check on Sherlock and Greg?”

It wasn’t that John didn’t appreciate what Mycroft had done for him--the man had waited outside the guest room door knowing John would need him. He had slept upright in an old wooden desk chair the entire night. He had offered support and comfort that John had desperately needed. It was just that Mycroft reminded John of his own perceived weakness, and at the moment he was in danger of being swallowed whole by the reminders. 

Mycroft nodded and stood from the edge of the bed, crossing to the doorway.

“Mycroft?” John asked once he’d stood from the bed himself.

“Yes, John?”

“Thank you, for, ah...you know, last night,” John said.

Mycroft nodded, not bothering to mask the fact that he was reading John’s body language. John tried to stand up taller, tried to keep eye contact for longer than fleeting seconds. 

“You should never have to go through that alone, kid,” he said. 

John cringed at the endearment, only realizing after Mycroft’s facial expression became more pointed that the word had been used as a kind of assessment of John’s mental state.

“I’m here for you,” Mycroft said, taking a step towards John. “Whether adult or child, you deserve to know that there are people who care for you, that you are worthy of care.”

John cleared his throat for what he knew was one too many times, glancing down to the floorboards with a quick nod. He wished he could believe Mycroft’s words. Maybe he would with some time and retrospection. But at the moment all he could do was mumble something vaguely assertive, willing the thoughts of his father--his father who had been pleased when John came home with his first black eye after fighting a bigger kid, his father who had drunkenly pulled him out of bed in the middle of one night to force him to climb a ladder in the dark and clean out the gutters John had earlier forgotten about, his father who cared more about John not making the football team than he did about John’s nearly perfect GPA--out of his mind. 

Mycroft waited for John to make eye contact once more, raised his eyebrows as if signalling that he expected them to return to the conversation at a later point, and led him out of the guest bedroom.

\---- 

As he felt the last trickles of wee dribble into the diaper and down his leg, Sherlock saw movement in the corner of his eye, and, shifting his focus, whimpered at the sudden presence of Mycroft in the doorway. Somehow, his brother understood everything after one pleading look. Somehow, he knew exactly what Sherlock needed.

“Sherlock Holmes, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, storming into the room and yanking Sherlock from the bed by the arm. “Wetting yourself like an uncivilized urchin.”

Sherlock stumbled against a fold in the floor rug as Mycroft dragged him across the bedroom and shoved him unceremoniously into the corner. He could see Bunny--no, John--watching from the doorway, but Sherlock registered little above the haze of contented relief he felt under Mycroft’s control. 

“You are not to move from that spot,” Mycroft said, his sneering contempt a stabilizing force. “You are to stand there and think about your behavior.”

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s hands by his waist, and suddenly his pajama pants were down around his ankles, his saturated diaper placed on display. 

Sherlock keened in the back of his throat, unsure whether to be distraught or ashamed but ultimately settling for grateful. In one fell swoop, Mycroft had settled his anxious mind. He had left him with nothing but the reality of punishment and the expectation of future comfort. 

He had his Mycroft back, and he planned to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) for ficlets and one-shots!


	9. A Little Uncertain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! 
> 
> It's been far, far too long since I've updated, and it doesn't seem as if life is going to slow down for me anytime soon. As a result, this chapter is much shorter than any of my previous ones--I know where I'm moving next, I just haven't had time to sit down and write! I'm hoping the shorter length will allow me to post more frequently until I can get back on track to my usual length of chapters. 
> 
> Thanks for your suggestions after the previous chapter--I'll keep them in mind!
> 
> Enjoy!

It was Mycroft who sent Greg and John downstairs to get started on breakfast, urging them away while he kept a keen watch on his misbehaving brother, whose nose was currently buried in the corner. Sherlock was clearly at the beginning of what would be a long time-out, and Mycroft was settling down to take him in hand. 

John was rather relieved to leave Mycroft in the master bedroom to preside over Sherlock. Not only was there no one better at reading Sherlock in headspace than Mycroft, but John had to admit he was not against a bit of separation from the man after the events of last night. Both Mycroft and Greg did their best to treat him and Sherlock as adults when they came out of headspace, but there was always the risk of residual caretaking. John was feeling embarrassed enough about the events of the night before; he didn’t need to chance additional self-consciousness by hanging around Mycroft as he punished Sherlock.

Greg, for his part, seemed to have caught on to John’s temporarily adult mindset, and he said little beyond passing John a cup of tea and asking from where he had stationed himself at the cooktop if he’d like an omelet.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” John said, running a hand along the back of his neck in what he realized too late would be a tell of discomfort.

“Rough night?” Greg asked, lifting a searching gaze towards John as he settled a carton of eggs on the counter.

“I’m fine,” John said, “Just, you know, bad dreams.” 

If he were honest with himself, John was feeling a bit on edge, caught between the clarity of his adult mind and the lingering vulnerability of the previous night, uneasiness keeping his younger headspace creeping into his thoughts. It wasn't rare for thoughts of John's father to enter into his thoughts, but it was rare for them to affect John so keenly. He'd spent a lifetime steeling himself against his father's influence; it was disconcerting to find himself strangely plagued by the man's gruffness once more. 

He cleared his throat and left the kitchen, mumbling something about retrieving the paper from the front step. Greg hummed in acknowledgement as he pulled bowls and pans from cabinets, but it followed a weighted glance, heavy with the type of overbearing worry that made John wish he could excuse himself to Baker Street without drawing attention to his absence. If Greg began coddling, John wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay adult, and at the moment he needed time to process out of headspace, time to settle himself into the present day. He took a moment to breathe in the morning air on the front stoop, then sat at his place at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper, less intent on reading than on presenting the image of preoccupation. 

John was reading news about a local charity leader embezzling money when Greg’s mobile rang. Greg, moving quickly to slide an omelet out of the pan and onto a plate before the call went to voicemail, wiped his hands on a tea towel before answering. 

“D.I. Lestrade,” he said, distracted by the fact that he’d burned a fingertip on the pan as he slid the omelet onto the plate. He grimaced and, holding the mobile to his ear with his raised shoulder, ran his fingers under cold tap water. 

John watched the process with sympathetic amusement, but turned back to the newspaper when he caught Greg’s eye. 

“Donovan, it’s my day off,” Greg sighed, clearly exasperated before pausing to listen. “Well, what about Dimmock?”

John could sense Greg’s hesitance as the Detective Inspector listened to Donovan continue to explain whatever pressing matter had led her to call. Greg and Mycroft both struggled to leave John and Sherlock when the boys were young, but they held high-profile positions; sometimes it couldn’t be helped. 

“No,” Greg said, suddenly raising his voice and standing up straighter. “You can’t let that happen, Donovan. It will compromise the case. You need---” 

Greg paused again, then sighed and looked towards John, who had given up pretending he wasn’t listening. 

“Alright,” Greg said, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he did when particularly overwhelmed. “Give me twenty minutes. Don’t let them inside until I arrive.”

Greg hung up his mobile and let it drop to the countertop. 

“Something wrong?” John asked. 

Greg shook his head as he carried the omelet to the kitchen table, placing it in front of him. 

“Nothing but incompetence,” he said with an ironic laugh. “Shouldn’t take too long to sort it all out. You go on and eat your breakfast while I go up and have a chat with your--with Mycroft.” 

Whether it was because Greg’s tone of voice was just this side of parental or because John was already feeling himself going stir-crazy cooped up in Mycroft’s kitchen after the invasive nightmares of the night before, John didn’t know, but he found himself standing from his chair as Greg turned to leave, causing the man to turn back around with a questioning glance.

“Can I come with you?” John asked.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question rather than a statement, hadn’t meant to sound quite so pleading. He knew it was the reason Greg was staring at him, the reason he was currently attempting to assess his state of mind. He looked a bit doubtful, and John cleared his throat.

“I’m not little, Greg,” he said, willing Greg--and himself--to believe it as truth. “I could use a bit of distraction, if I’m honest.”

Whether because he actually believed him to be fully adult or because he was simply in too much of a rush to question the statement, John didn’t know. But Greg took only a moment longer before nodding and turning from the kitchen.

“We leave in five minutes,” he called over his shoulder. “Eat your omelet.” 

John smirked and, sitting back down, tucked into the eggs. He ignored the comfort Greg’s simple directions brought to him and the fear he’d felt at the prospect of Greg leaving, a fear that and adult Sherlock would have diagnosed as separation anxiety. John was not a child at the moment; he would have been just as capable of staying behind as he was capable of accompanying Greg to a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. For those of you waiting for Sherlock's punishment from Mycroft as he settles him back down into a calm headspace, rest assured that we'll get back to it :)


	10. A Little Discipline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all well! Sending positive vibes :)

Mycroft was not pleased to hear that Greg had already agreed to bring John to work with him, citing the doctor’s nearly sleepless night and undoubtedly frayed nerves. 

“He’s in no state to be traipsing around crime scenes,” Mycroft said. “And neither are you, for that matter. You’ve been dealing with overly emotional children since we picked them up yesterday.”

He followed Greg to the far side of the bedroom, where Greg was pulling on dress trousers and an undershirt. Mycroft had a point; after Sherlock’s moody struggle to age down the day before and John’s gender confusion and PTSD-induced nightmares, they were all on edge. But Greg had been working on this particular case for months, and he was not about to let Dimmock screw it up simply because the man was suddenly on some sort of power trip. 

“We’ll be fine,” Greg said, not having the time to convince the worried man any more eloquently. He stepped into the closet and began sorting through the dress shirts he kept at Mycroft’s. “I’ll keep an eye on him. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Greg yanked a light blue shirt and grey tie from their hangers, for once grateful for Mycroft’s insistence that items be dry cleaned and pressed before being placed in his closet. 

“Papa, can I come, too?” Sherlock asked, still perched in the corner but craning his neck to look over his shoulder. “I want to go to work with you, too.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Greg said, shrugging on the shirt and hurrying across the room to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple as he buttoned it hurriedly. “Not this time.”

Sherlock whined, tears filling his eyes.

“I’ll be good,” he sniffled. The boy was pitifully cute, face tear-streaked and hair mussed, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and wet diaper. “Why does John get to go and not me?” 

Greg could do nothing but lean to kiss the boy’s head again, clucking his tongue in an apology. The boy was not in a state to understand rationalization, and Greg unfortunately did not have the time to indulge him. He was more than grateful that Mycroft stepped in before the boy’s puppy dog eyes had him actually agreeing to take the baby with him, too, out of guilt. 

“Because John is not currently in time-out awaiting a spanking for a slew of cheeky misbehaviors,” Mycroft said. “Now turn back around and face the corner, young man.” 

Sherlock whined again but obeyed, and Greg kissed Mycroft, assuring him once again that all would be fine before calling down the hallway towards Bunny’s room, where he had seen John retreat, likely in order to get dressed in something a bit more appropriate for the public eye than joggers and a t-shirt. 

Mycroft pulled Greg close and began knotting the man’s tie as Greg tucked his shirt into his trousers.

“Look after him,” Mycroft said as his fingers worked methodically and skillfully. “He’s not far from headspace, no matter what he tells you.”

“I will, Myc,” Greg said, and, when Mycroft did not release his hold on Greg’s now knotted tie: “I’ll look after him. I promise.”

Mycroft looked a bit skeptical, but he nodded and reached a hand around the back of Greg’s neck as he pulled him in for another kiss. 

“Look after yourself, too,” Mycroft said with an eyebrow cocked, and Greg smiled. 

“John, we have to go,” Greg called as he grabbed his mobile from the bureau and left Mycroft and Sherlock. 

John emerged from the bedroom down the hall, dressed in jeans and a button-up, nodding that he was set to go. Greg fought against the urge to ask if the man needed the loo before they left, willing himself out of caretaker mode. The man wasn’t actually toilet training. But John was quiet as they made their way to the car, bordering on distracted; Greg hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by allowing the man to tag along. 

\----

Mycroft wanted to forbid John from leaving, wanted to explain that the man was far too fragile at the moment to process his own emotions, let alone the emotions inherent within a visit to a crime scene. But he knew he needed to allow John to make his own decisions when he was in an adult headspace, no matter how shaky that headspace may be. It was a tenant of John’s trust in him, and Mycroft had always been careful to treat both John and Sherlock as adults when they needed the separation. He just had to hope Greg would be nearby when John would inevitably need a bit of looking after. 

Mycroft turned back to his current preoccupation, who was fidgeting in the corner. He still needed to punish Sherlock, both to account for his misbehavior and for the sake of the man’s mental state. But the long time-out had already done wonders to soothe the boy’s mind. Mycroft knew he had a small window of opportunity to get to the bottom of Sherlock’s current negative thoughts before the boy--either settling back to his troublemaking seven-year-old self or sinking down to his neediest and youngest self--would not be able to accurately express his emotions. 

“Come here, kid,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “We need to have a bit of a chat.”

Sherlock turned and shuffled towards Mycroft, who took him by the wrists and pulled him close until he was standing between Mycroft’s knees. His little brother was far too tall now to make it a practical position for getting the boy at eye level, as Mycroft had done when Sherlock was a child, but it conjured up an old routine, which went far where Sherlock was concerned.

“Want to tell me what’s been going on in that mind of yours?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, eyes darting down to the floorboards. 

“Nothing,” the boy said, prompting a hum of displeasure from Mycroft.

“It’s been a tough few days, I know. But we have to talk about the bad thoughts to combat them.”

Sherlock shifted where he stood, then pulled himself away from Mycroft’s grip on his wrists to collapse onto the bed, tucking himself close to his brother. Mycroft told him everything was going to be alright as he guided the boy to lay down, rubbing his back. When Sherlock’s head was in his lap, Mycroft shifted his hand to card his fingers through his little brother’s curls. 

“I’ve got you,” Mycroft said. “It’s going to be alright.” 

“Wanted you,” Sherlock said at last, nuzzling his face into Mycroft’s thigh. “Papa said you would be here in the morning, but you were with Bunny still.” 

Mycroft had surmised this train of thought already, had anticipated Sherlock’s lingering feelings of inadequacy and insecurity when it came to any attention lavished on John. They were feelings they had been dealing with since John first joined in on their ageplay but particularly since the weekend at the lake when Sherlock had learned that Mycroft was Bunny’s Daddy. Sherlock’s insecurities regarding John’s participation in ageplay were clearly not about to vanish overnight; Mycroft simply had to show the boy how loved he was and hope the words would sink it eventually. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up, ‘Lock,” he said, voice soft. “I know that must have been frustrating, especially since Papa told you I would be.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbled. “Didn’t like it.” 

He brought his thumb to his lips and Mycroft, tsking, guided his hand away. Sherlock needed structure and rules at the moment. His thumb-sucking had become something a bit more complicated in recent weeks, and thus Mycroft had not routinely chastised the boy for the act. But the current incident was clearly a ploy for attention and discipline, which Mycroft could easily provide. 

“You’re too big to suck your thumb,” Mycroft said, knowing the dose of humiliation would keep Sherlock vulnerable enough to keep him talking for a few moments more.

Sherlock obeyed, but turned his face into Mycroft’s lap with a whine. 

“Do you remember what happened to Bunny last night?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Bad dreams,” he said. “Wet bed.” 

“Exactly, smart boy,” Mycroft said, choosing to ignore the way Sherlock hid his face as he was praised. “It was important that I helped Bunny feel safe last night after his scary dreams. Do you understand?”

Sherlock shrugged. The boy was getting antsy; he would not put up with conversation and coddling for much longer. 

“Understand,” Sherlock said, but then, bitterly: “You like Bunny better than me.” 

It was a sentiment Sherlock had expressed before, one Mycroft had known would re-emerge. He took hold of Sherlock’s shoulders and helped the boy to sit up. He needed the boy’s full attention, and that required eye contact. 

“Sherlock. Listen to me,” he said, guiding Sherlock by the chin to look up at him. “I love you very much, and I love your brother very much. But my relationship with Bunny could never replace my relationship with you. My role as Bunny’s Daddy does not change the fact that being your big brother is the one of the most special parts of my life. You are more important than you know, buddy.” 

Sherlock looked a bit uncertain, reaching down to trace the stripes along the duvet.

“I needed you to help _me_ feel safe last night,” the boy said after a moment, voice just loud enough for Mycroft to hear.

“Oh, kiddo,” Mycroft breathed, suddenly plagued with guilt and doubt. 

He had known his brother had been through a stressful day fighting headspace and his insecurities when it came to the newly added element of toilet training, had seen first-hand how self-conscious and fragile Sherlock had been feeling as evidenced by the numerous lies he had told to uphold his pride the day before. But he had assumed Sherlock was fine under Greg’s care, that Greg would tell him if anything seemed wrong. Why hadn’t he checked up on him? Had he indeed chosen Bunny over Sherlock the night before? Had he ignored Sherlock's distress in favor of Bunny’s? 

“Come here, love,” Mycroft said, shifting to rest against the bed’s headrest so he could gather a teary Sherlock into his lap and wrap his arms around him. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. It was never my intention to leave you when you were feeling sad.”

“Bunny yelled and I woke up too fast,” Sherlock sniffled, knuckling at an eye. “Papa helped but I wanted you.”

“I can see why that would be scary,” Mycroft soothed. “You’re right, buddy. I should have checked in on you to make sure you were okay. You deserve my attention, too.”

Sherlock laid his head against Mycroft’s chest before speaking. 

“Even though I’m naughty and Bunny has more stickers on his chart than me?” he asked, once again showing his preoccupation with competition between himself and John. 

“Those things don’t matter, love,” Mycroft said, cupping Sherlock’s cheek when the boy leaned back to look up at him. “You’re a special boy no matter what, and I love you always, no matter your behavior or the state of your trousers.”

“Love you, too, My,” Sherlock said, leaning forward until his forehead was once again resting on Mycroft’s chest. “Love you always, too.” 

Sherlock had truly come a long way in the short time since Bunny had been introduced into their little world of ageplay. John’s little side had come with its share of challenges for all involved, but Mycroft had never before seen Sherlock so consistently open, so frequently receptive to affection and expressions of endearment. It used to be that Sherlock only accepted attention that was tied to discipline; Bunny had taught him there was nothing wrong with wanting to be loved. 

Mycroft kissed the boy on the top of his head, vowing to remember that, although Sherlock and Greg had grown close, the boy was still rather dependent on big brother. He needed to do a better job of assessing the boy’s moods and anticipating his needs, even in the middle of the night after one of John’s nightmares. 

“Don’t like potty training,” Sherlock said all at once, leaving Mycroft wondering whether this was a new topic of conversation or an extension of their last one. “...‘s too hard.” 

Mycroft nodded.

“You don’t have to be potty training if you don’t wish to be, kiddo,” Mycroft assured. “You can take it at your own pace. There’s lots of history, there. It’s understandable that putting yourself back into that mindset is difficult.” 

Sherlock squirmed, and Mycroft knew they had reached the end of the boy’s patience, could sense there were too many thoughts raging in Sherlock’s mind. They would have to continue the potty training discussion at another time. At the moment, it was time to put a stop to the negative thoughts crowding Sherlock’s psyche, time to allow Sherlock to escape into a clearer, simpler headspace brought about by discipline and vulnerability. 

“Ready, kiddo?” 

Sherlock nodded with such a relieved sigh that Mycroft almost felt remorse for prolonging the kid’s wait. Then again, he had gained valuable information regarding his brother’s state of mind by questioning him, information that had been necessary to gather in order to know best how to help him move forward. 

“Let’s get that diaper off of you, then. It’s been on for far too long as it is, and we don’t want you to get a rash.”

Sherlock was naked from the waist down and over Mycroft’s lap a moment later, writhing but content as he was spanked. It was a rather long spanking, Sherlock’s bare bum reddening as Mycroft hit him again and again, but Mycroft knew it was what Sherlock needed, in fact what he was desperate for. The boy, yelling through his snivelling, was being punished for the lies of the day before and the cheekiness of the morning’s antics, yes, but he was also being shown the affirmation of Mycroft’s care for him. Mycroft had him in-hand, and Sherlock could do nothing but trust that Mycroft--steadfast, intuitive, big brother Mycroft--knew just what he needed.

“That’s enough, now,” Mycroft said when he could sense Sherlock fatiguing. “Good boy.” 

Sherlock lay across Mycroft’s lap and cried for a moment longer while Mycroft rubbed the reddened skin of the boy’s bum. Eventually he helped him to stand, so that he could look him in the eye. Mycroft was pleased to see that Sherlock was calm at long last, that his mind was finally content even as the boy wiped his face with the backs of his hands. He smiled up at the boy and reached to hold him by the wrists.

“All done now,” he said. “You did good, buddy.”

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft stood to lead him into the master bathroom.

“I think someone could use a bath this morning,” he said. “We’ll get you all nice and clean and dressed in something comfy before we take you down for some breakfast. How does that sound?”

“Cartoons?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft kneeled to turn on the bath taps.

Mycroft turned over his shoulder to catch the boy’s pleading glance, and could not help but breathe a laugh. 

“If you eat your breakfast,” he said, cursing himself for going soft. “Just don’t tell your Papa.” 

Sherlock giggled and nodded, clearly pleased to have a secret to keep with his brother. Mycroft helped him out of his t-shirt and into the bath when the water level was high enough, finding a few bath toys that had migrated from the hall loo, where the boys were usually bathed. Sherlock settled in nicely, playing quietly as Mycroft washed and shampooed. 

Being alone with his brother always reminded Mycroft of their earliest days ageplaying. Sure, they were both far more confident in their roles than they had been while bumbling their way through the trial-and-error of their earliest scenes, back when Mycroft had practically been a kid himself and Sherlock was a very angry little, but there was still the contented history of their shared experiences and the extreme trust that came from the history of Mycroft looking after Sherlock. Mycroft had been there for his little brother in the past, and he would do everything in his power to ensure that he would be there for him in the future, guarding him against the monsters of his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to have a quick one-shot posted later this week over on [Tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com) :)


	11. A Little Stubbornness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves!
> 
> Wow, has it been a while since I've updated. I'm realizing that this time of year is always such a tricky time for me--I've had a tough time finding motivation to write and, when I do write, I've been plagued with doubt about being able to convey what I'd like to in each chapter. As a result, I've been dragging my feet about updating. But you lovely readers deserve an update, and I made it a point to get something updated before going to sleep tonight.
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but allowed me to explore the stubbornness of both Sherlock and John during their respective mornings. The boys are certainly not making Mycroft or Greg's lives easy, lately, but cutesy, comforting fluff is always so much more satisfying after some angst and drama, don't you think? I've already started the next chapter (Sherlock's portion is written, so now I'll just need to work on John's), so I'm hopeful it won't be another eon before the next chapter is posted! Feel free to send suggestions--I'm feeling a bit out of my depth as I go about writing John and Greg at a crime scene, so they would be very much welcomed!
> 
> You're all such lovely humans--thanks as always for your love. I promise to respond to all of your comments on the last chapter tomorrow morning after catching up on some sleep!
> 
> Sending Bunny kisses, as always! xoxo

If John were honest with himself, he knew as soon as he stepped behind Greg into the abandoned warehouse that he had no business being at a crime scene in his current state of mind. Yes, he was adult at the moment. But he could feel the fuzziness around the edges of his consciousness, the vulnerability that had settled over him last night and was persisting in sticking around despite his attempts to shake it off. 

It was rare that he felt so close to being small while out in public. He felt nervous whenever Greg stepped away from him in order to field questions or examine various pieces of evidence, he hadn’t been able to find an appropriately witty comeback to Donovan’s snide greeting, and he’d even hesitated before approaching the corpse, feeling a rather unexplainable fear he couldn’t shake. Generally he was staunchly adult while out in public, too wary about giving his smaller self away to even contemplate behaving any way other than as Dr. Watson, the army doctor. But he’d lost sleep the night before, and had perhaps shifted up in headspace too quickly. He was feeling rather unmoored. 

“A witness pegged the getaway car,” Greg explained as he stepped close once more. 

There was urgency to his voice, the sort of no-nonsense tone he used when working with the efficiency required for police work. John could not help but identify that it was reminiscent of the tone he used when in Papa-mode, working to solve a problem that had emerged between Sherlock and Bunny. 

“They’re checking DVLA records now,” Greg was saying, not seeming to notice John’s lack of focus. “We got a tip on a potential location of interest.”

They were driving a moment later, then in and out of the car as they chased leads that Greg mumbled information about in snippets. John attempted to be useful. He took notes and asked questions when it seemed appropriate, hoping to help Greg process and brainstorm. But he was exhausted after the tumultuous night of nightmares and panic attacks, half-distracted and, after two hours, beginning to count down the time until they could be back home. John could no longer deny that he hadn’t truly been ready to follow Greg to the crime scene; alone in the car with Greg, he could feel the facade of strength and toughness slipping. He would never admit it out loud, but he wanted to be small. 

He was grateful Greg was distracted; it gave him leeway to rest his eyes as he tipped his head against the coolness of the window. 

For a reason he was still struggling to work out, John continued to be plagued by thoughts of his father. The memories had first emerged that morning, spurred to his consciousness by the embarrassment he’d felt after letting Mycroft care for him the night before. John did not speak often about his childhood, and although details had been recalled when they had been dealing with issues of Bunny’s gender identity, for the most part John had vowed long ago to leave that aspect of his life behind him. Harry was the only family he had left; there had been no need to keep the memory of his father alive after his death. 

It was perhaps for the very reason that John rarely thought of his father that the recent persistence of the man’s memory was unsettling him. Mycroft had said it before: ageplay had the potential to bring back memories you’d rather forget. But John’s memories of his father had come while John was adult, and were persisting in his aged up mindset, calling back memories of his father’s diffidence and brusqueness, his expectations and often gruff treatment. He was suddenly ashamed to think of what his father would think should he find out his son was ageplaying, the man's reach extending far beyond the physical role he'd played in John's life. 

“You alright?” Greg asked as they pulled into the parking lot of a motel outside London, and John blinked his eyes open and sat up straight once more.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to laugh in order to conjure some kind of nonchalance. “I’m good.” 

But Greg was glancing back and forth between the road and John as he parked the car, and he was frowning.

“I can swing you back to Mycroft’s when we’re finished here,” he said, conveying far more with his concerned look than he did with his words. “It’s been a long day.”

John cleared his throat and shook his head. He was a grown man. He didn’t need to be catered to, didn't need the type of coddling he'd allowed himself to accept from Mycroft after the nightmares last night.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, opening the car door and removing himself from the passenger seat before Greg could pry for further information. 

\----

Mycroft’s discipline followed by a morning bath had done Sherlock well. The boy had shifted into his baseline age of seven, and settled nicely in front of the telly to watch cartoons, surrounded by his plush alligator and dinosaur and the half-completed pirate ship he’d been building out of legos. Sherlock even allowed Mycroft to periodically feed him bits of toast and jam for breakfast as the boy, searching for the right legos, crawled around on the blanket that had been spread out for him across the living room floor. 

Mycroft had watched his little brother battle depression for years. Even though he’d helped to defray some of the negative feelings for the time being by settling the boy into himself and proving that he was loved, chemical imbalances were tricky to combat. The feelings of loneliness and sadness would likely recur throughout the day, and Mycroft needed to keep an eye on his brother’s mental state. Perhaps it was beneficial that John and Greg were out of the house for the time being, no matter Mycroft’s worry over John’s current mindset. It would allow him to focus fully on his brother.

“Half an hour longer and the television is turned off,” Mycroft said as he stood to carry the half-empty plate to the kitchen. Sherlock had made it clear he had eaten all the breakfast he was going to accept. “No arguments.” 

Sherlock was too absorbed in building and listening to the telly in the background to do anything more than hum a response. Mycroft had too much experience to categorize the noise as acknowledgement. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, raising his voice from the other room, expectant.

“Okay, My,” Sherlock called after a moment, drawing out his vowels like the petulant child he was. “One more hour.”

“Half an hour,” Mycroft corrected. He knew Sherlock had not misheard. 

The boy sighed, and there was frustration in his voice when he next spoke.

“Fine,” he said.

Mycroft was surprised when no whispered epithets followed. 

He left Sherlock to play and set about washing the breakfast dishes Greg and John had left in their haste to get to the crime scene, stepping back into the living room every few moments to keep tabs on Sherlock. He wiped down the counters and the stovetop before moving onto the floors. It was rare that he had a moment to clean up in the midst of ageplaying; often there was simply not a quiet enough moment to tidy the place to the state Mycroft found most comfortable. 

It was when he moved onto the fridge with disinfecting wipes that he remembered the comment Sherlock had made earlier that morning about no longer wanting to potty train. The charts for both boys were still magnetized to the stainless steel, John’s above Sherlock’s. Mycroft slid the magnets from the corners of Sherlock’s chart. 

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen when Mycroft turned, empty sippy cup in one hand and plush alligator in the other. He looked confused, glancing back and forth between Mycroft and the chart in his hand.

“We’ll put it back up when you’re ready,” Mycroft said with a smile. “For now, let’s not worry about stickers and charts, okay?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed beneath the damp curls falling over his forehead. He pulled at his bottom lip, and Mycroft wondered if the boy would accept a pacifier if he offered one.

“I want stickers, My,” he said, unable to keep a bit of a whine from his voice.

Mycroft placed the chart on the counter so he could step forward and rest a hand on his brother’s cheek while he took the empty sippy cup from his hand. 

“I think it’s best if we take a little break from potty training, buddy,” he said, opening the fridge to find the half-empty apple juice container. “It’s all been a bit too much too soon, I think.” 

“Bunny, too?” Sherlock asked, body shifting behind Mycroft as he worked to assess the situation. 

Mycroft paused. He couldn’t very well put an end to potty training when the entire weekend had been planned for experimentation with it per Bunny’s request. Yes, Sherlock had admitted he found potty training to be difficult, but Mycroft should have known the boy wouldn’t give it up simply because it caused him distress. There was competition to worry about, and his status as older brother. 

“That will have to be Bunny’s decision, bud,” he said, twisting the top back onto the now-refilled sippy cup after diluting the juice with some water to keep Sherlock’s sugar intake down. “You just worry about yourself.”

Mycroft could see when Sherlock’s uncertainty shifted into determination. His body became still, and he shook his head. 

“If Bunny’s potty training, then me too,” he said. 

Mycroft sighed, knowing that Sherlock did not need the added pressure of worrying about keeping his pull-up dry on one of his down days but also knowing that denying the boy the chance had the possibility to send him into a downward spiral. Mycroft’s best course of action was to agree but keep a close eye on Sherlock to ensure the boy didn’t face the hit to his self-confidence that would inevitably come should an accident occur. 

“Is that really what you want, kiddo?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded, then pointed to the chart, which he made clear he wanted Mycroft to hang back up on the fridge. Mycroft did so, albeit a bit reluctantly. 

“Juice, please,” Sherlock said when Mycroft was finished, reaching out his hand for the sippy-cup on the counter.

Mycroft passed over the plastic dinosaur cup and sent Sherlock off to the living room once more. His brother was nothing if not a contrary handful, but Mycroft had learned long ago that it was necessary to allow Sherlock to come to his own decisions. Mycroft may have known that Sherlock needed a break from toilet training, but Sherlock didn't know it yet. He would need to keep a close eye on him, would need to ensure the boy came to the conclusion with as little turmoil as was in Mycroft's power. 


	12. A Little Recall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind words during the last update, loves! I really appreciate the support. 
> 
> This chapter gave me a bit of trouble, but after the third edit I think I got it to a place that I'm okay posting it. One of you lovely readers gave me the idea a while back to potentially explore the idea that John's father was not exactly the best influence in his young life, which was interesting to play with here. Thanks also for those of you who suggested that an argument and/or other commotion may set John sinking into headspace at the crime scene--that was a great help in getting me over a major hurdle of this chapter! 
> 
> I hope you're all doing well, and I'm sending positive vibes for a wonderful rest of your week! 
> 
> xoxo

Greg was clearly worried about John's state of mind. The Detective Inspector's concerned gaze, searching and a bit skeptical, followed him as they entered the office of the motel that had become a location of interest in the case. And when they realized upon entering the specified motel room that they’d stumbled upon yet another gruesome crime scene, Greg’s furrowed eyebrows only set deeper.

His concerns were not misplaced. It was only midday, but it had been a long, busy morning, and John was struggling. The prospect of having to examine his second deceased body of the day did not sit well. He sighed, fighting the impulse to lean into Greg’s chest to ask him to take him home, away from death and dirty motel rooms. He imagined how nice it would be to be bundled up in the car, where he could put his head in Greg’s lap, maybe even suck his thumb. 

He cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring Greg’s concerned glance as he tried to ground himself to the crime scene. It was important that he examine the details of the corpse to provide initial information. He needed to be adult. 

“I'm going to put a call in to Donovan,” Greg said. “Get Anderson and the forensics team out here. You alright for a moment?”

John hummed a half-hearted acknowledgement. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Greg said as he pulled his mobile from his pocket. “We’ll finish up and head home, okay?” 

John bit his tongue against cursing at Greg for talking to him as if he were a child. The rundown motel room was exactly the type of place where, years ago, John had found his father after long nights spent looking for him in response to his mother’s tearful worries that his father hadn’t come home. He had enough prompting him towards vulnerability at the moment; he didn’t need any additional triggers to set him off feeling young.

He forced himself to cross to the body, which was in the bathroom of the motel room, then crouched onto the dirty tiles to begin a cursory examination. Greg seemed to understand that John was not in the mood to chat, and left him alone to make his phone calls. 

The man currently on the floor of the cramped motel room bathroom had the same sharp, unshaven jawline as John's father, and the circles beneath the man’s eyes were the same deep, dark circles that were present on his father’s face whenever John found him passed out in corner booths or atop the synthetic fabric of motel room comforters. The body before him had the additional marks of strangulation, and there was a yellow tinge to the man’s eyes when he examined them closely, but there was enough of a resemblance to set John on edge, recalling memories of his own father’s violent forays into alcoholism. 

He stood and cleared his throat once more, crossing out of the bathroom and across the main room to the opened doorway. He needed fresh air. 

“What’s it look like?” Greg asked when he met him in front of the room. He had come from the direction of the motel office, where he’d likely been informing the manager that they would need to establish a perimeter. 

“Another strangulation,” John said, keeping his eyes set on the scattered cars passing along the road in front of them. “Just a few hours ago, I’d guess.” 

One night years ago, he’d come home from rugby practice to find his father’s hand around his mother’s throat. John had shouted and pulled as his father pushed her against the wall, hand teasing against her windpipe until he finally let her go. 

“Damn,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Let’s hope forensics can give us something new.” 

His father had never left motel rooms easily; John often attracted quite a few onlookers as he wrestled his belligerent father--screaming threats and curses--into the back seat of the car. He’d found the role reversal ironic even then: a fifteen-year-old with only a learner’s permit driving his drunken father, passed out in the back seat, home. 

“You sure you’re alright, kid?”

His own father had barely known the names of his best friends, yet here was Greg, understanding John’s unease even while John did everything in his power to present himself as capable. 

“I’m fine,” he said, listening for the approaching sirens in the distance. 

It was a relief to know they would soon find themselves surrounded by others; the bustle of canvassing a crime scene would help to distract him, or, at the very least, distract Greg. He needed to escape Greg’s presence, needed to separate himself before he cried and told him he was sad and asked to be held, before he slipped into Bunny and started asking why some Daddies were bad. 

The forensics team made quick work of the room, entering with their latex gloves and full-body coveralls to assess the scene and begin processing evidence in the bathroom. Greg supervised and organized each team in turn before leaving the room to meet Donovan when she arrived, taking her through the updated information they’d gleaned. 

John tucked himself away in a corner close to the bathroom doorway when the others streamed into the room, feeling somehow protective of the body lying prone beside the bathtub and in front of the toilet now that there were others milling about. He told Anderson and the techs what he’d found, and they listened half-heartedly, bending to begin their own examinations. Anderson raised an eyebrow at John's assessment, clearly resentful that the man had been allowed first glance at the scene. 

“Poor son-of-a-bitch didn’t know what he was in for,” Anderson said when they'd seen the extent of the bruising around his neck. He breathed a laugh as he began scraping beneath the man’s fingernails for residual DNA.

The other tech removed the man’s wedding ring and placed it into an evidence bag, then continued on with fluid collections, swapping blood and saliva. 

“Probably fancied himself a night of take-away and porn far from his nagging wife and sniveling kids,” Anderson sneered, nasal voice grating on John. “Got a lot more than he bargained for, didn’t he?” 

The second man had a cackling, over-the-top laugh that set John’s teeth on edge, and John glared as Anderson crossed out of the bathroom to catalog a blood sample.

“What’s your problem?” the man asked when he saw John’s pointed stare.

John was not in the mood to speak, let alone associate with men too dimwitted to realize they were disrespecting both the dead and the grieving for the sake of their own twisted sense of humor. It had always been Sherlock who had issues with Anderson, but John was beginning to understand his aversion to the pathetic rat and his team. 

“All we’re saying is whoever killed him probably did the poor guy a favor,” Anderson said with a pointed smirk to John as he stepped back into the bathroom, proud of himself for the irony. “It takes a pretty shitty home life to send a guy scrambling to a place like this.” 

And then John was shoving Anderson out of the bathroom and up against the bedroom wall. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Anderson asked as he pushed John off to step away. “Get away from me!”

But John was intent on injuring, suddenly defending not a nameless corpse on the bathroom floor but his own father. He lashed out, his knuckles quickly making contact with Anderson's cheekbone. Anderson tried to fight back, throwing a punch which grazed John’s ear, but it was clear the man had never needed to defend himself physically before, and John soon sent the wiry man stumbling backwards with a pleasing crack as his head hit against the plaster. He took pleasure in bloodying Anderson's nose with the next punch, and even more pleasure in the sight of the man cowering at the base of the wall, his arms over his head for protection. 

The commotion sent the second tech scrambling to his feet to separate the two men, and soon Greg and a handful of others came rushing into the cramped room. 

“That’s enough,” Greg was calling over the taunts and epithets as he elbowed his way towards the men at the center of the action. “Break it up.” 

He yanked John towards the door while the second tech helped a shouting, put-upon Anderson to his feet, then dragged John out of the motel room by a firm grip on his upper arm. They were in the parking lot a moment later, John swearing and fighting to pull away from Greg’s grasp. 

“What the hell are you thinking?” Greg was saying when he’d shoved John up against the side of his car, voice enraged. “You just compromised the crime scene of a case we’ve been working for months! I have enough trouble convincing Anderson and the others to let you and Sherlock step in on these cases. You think starting a fist fight is going to help your case? Jesus, John! Mycroft was right, you weren’t anywhere near ready to handle a crime scene today.”

John’s anger was seething as he did what he could to wrestle out of Greg’s grasp on his shoulders, but he found himself unable to respond to Greg’s anger with his own. He merely glared at the man, conscious of his heightened adrenaline dying down as Donovan calmed Anderson and set the others back to work in the motel room. 

He’d messed up; he knew that. He needed to explain that he’d been defending his mother and his father, that he hadn’t meant to start a fight and compromise the evidence collection but his thoughts had been shifting back to all those years ago, when he had just been a scared kid fighting to keep his family together. 

And then, unable to explain himself and tired out from the anger and resentment which had been building since they'd first entered the motel room, he felt his hardened face falling. He found himself blinking back tears.

Greg seemed to immediately register that John was slipping down into headspace, and he sighed, loosening his hold on John without letting go. 

“Oh, kiddo,” he sighed, exasperated but compassionate. “It’s been a rough day, huh?”

John nodded, trying to blink back tears but only succeeding in causing them to spill over onto his cheeks. He’d been wrestling with memories of his father since the aftereffects of his nightmare the night before. Why did they have to stumble upon a crime scene that reminded him of all those years ago? He’d left those nights in stifling motel rooms smelling of fast food and cigarette smoke far behind him; he thought he’d put them to rest once and for all once his father had been buried. Harry had shown up drunk to the funeral, which John had almost been able to acknowledge as some sort of tribute. The memories were supposed to have stayed in the past. 

“Yeah,” he agreed in little more than a whisper as he ducked his head to wipe his teary eyes on his shoulder. 

John tried to explain that he was sorry, tried to put to words all that he wanted Greg to know and all that he was still trying to process. But words were hard, and he knew he would not be able to present himself as adult for much longer. He needed to get out of view of the others, he needed to get away from the dead body in the bathroom that looked so much like his drunken father.

“I want to go home, please” he said, doing all he could to be polite, to hold back the whining tone for just a few moments longer. 

Greg ran a hand up John’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck. He squeezed gently, helping to ground John. It was exactly what John needed to keep him from dissolving into sobs, and he was grateful for the gesture.

“Okay, champ,” Papa said, guiding John towards the backseat before opening the door. “Let’s get you into the car.” 

John allowed himself to be manipulated into the back seat, where he felt he could finally breathe without a heavy weight on his chest, shielded from the outside world. He wiped at the tears that continued to fall, willing himself to hold his emotions together at least until he was alone with Greg, on their way home. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Greg said, reaching to pull the seat belt across John’s chest and buckling him in. “I’ll just be a minute.”

And then John was alone, closed into the back seat as Greg went to check in with Donovan, to make some excuse that would allow them to leave. John wanted to suck his thumb, but he was too afraid someone would see. He was desperate for his pacifier or one of his plush toys or his bunny blanket perhaps more than he’d ever been before. He needed something to calm him. He needed Papa, whom he was anxious for until he came back into sight, hurrying towards the car and climbing into the front seat.

“Okay, love,” he said, turning the key in the ignition before twisting over his shoulder to catch John’s teary gaze. “Let’s get you home to Daddy and Sherlock, okay?” 

John wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and nodded. He wished he could explain why he’d been so bad. But he could not stop himself from wondering what he’d done all those years ago to make his father run away from him and Harry and their mum, and a part of him was terrified that, were he to admit to Greg what had upset him, Papa would just confirm that it had been all his fault, after all. He should have played more sports, like his father had wanted him to. He shouldn't have argued with him so much. He should have kept his room cleaner. 

The fact that Greg had a spare pacifier in the glove compartment that he offered to John as soon as they had turned onto the main road should have soothed him, but instead it set him off into hitching sobs, the dwindling prospect of being found out releasing him from any hold he had on his adult headspace. 

“Use your soother, bud,” Greg said, glancing to him with reassurance through the rear-view mirror. “It’s okay to cry, but try to breathe.”

John pushed the pacifier into his mouth, doing all he could to stem the sobs. He knew he was safe with Papa, that they were getting farther and farther away from the crime scene with each passing moment. But it had been a scary, hard day, and John dropped his head into his hands and cried.

It was only once the car was slowing down that he glanced up to see they had pulled off the main road and into the far corner of a mostly-empty parking lot. Papa was turning off the car and getting out of the front seat to sit with Bunny in the back, gathering him into his lap and telling him it would be okay. 

“You’re okay, little one,” Papa was saying into Bunny’s ear as he hugged him close, rocking him in his arms. “I’ve got you.” 

Bunny could not respond through the shuddering sobs. He should have been settled by Papa’s arms around him, comforted by Papa’s warmth and his hand against his back. Papa assured him again and again that it would all be okay, and Bunny tried as hard as he could to believe him. But there were memories that stalked and memories that haunted; Papa was strong, but Bunny wasn’t sure even he could cast them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) if you haven't read the newest ficlet, "Relapse."


	13. A Little Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short update for all of you lovely readers! Hope you're all doing well and are hanging in there! 
> 
> Sending you all love and bunny kisses xxoo <3
> 
> Update: Edited 5/11 for what seemed a bit too harsh of a response from Mycroft initially.

Mycroft’s plans to keep a close eye on Sherlock had been well-intentioned. The boy had been cycling through emotions since being woken up by Bunny’s nightmare the night before, and Mycroft knew it was essential that he be there to keep his brother settled comfortably in headspace. 

But he hadn’t anticipated the call from Anthea explaining that a political higher-up with an axe to grind was threatening exposure of governmental secrets, secrets he’d become privy to as a result of a reckless secret service member. 

After a quick check to ensure Sherlock was content in front of the telly for the time being, he’d been forced to retreat into his office to argue with not one but two insubordinate government figureheads. It was necessary to speak with them before he could even begin the task of putting out the figurative fires the secret service member had started with what Mycroft would ensure was his career-ending breach of protocol. It was a high-stakes situation, but Mycroft would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the adrenaline rush. Damage control of the highest degree was how he had moved into his position of power years ago; he thrived under the challenge. 

That said, he couldn’t help but find it frustratingly ironic that the day the political geography of England was threatened by opportunism was the same day Greg had been called into work and John had insisted on tagging along. Mycroft, as a rule, kept very strict boundaries between his home and work life. At the moment, however, he had no option but to to handle things as quickly and efficiently as possible while hoping Sherlock would be content with some extra time in front of the telly.

\----

Initially, Sherlock had been pleased to find Mycroft had forgotten about the half-hour time limit he’d placed on screen time, feeling a naughty thrill as each episode of cartoons passed without the appearance of big brother and his big book of rules. But now his sippy cup was long-since empty, and his morning cartoons had shifted over into some sort of infomercial for cleaning products, and Sherlock was tired of telly. 

It was as he climbed to his feet that he realized he’d wet himself, pull-up heavy and the seat of his pants wet from where it had leaked. His cheeked warmed. He hadn’t even realized he’d needed to go. Usually Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep back the tears. Mycroft could make it all better; he just needed to find him. 

“It would be impossible,” Sherlock could hear Mycroft explaining from his office down the hallway now that he was listening for his brother. “There’s simply no protocol for a request of that nature. I assure you, this is the last you’ll hear of him and his grandiose fantasies of acceleration.” 

Sherlock gathered up his plush alligator in one arm and Dimitri the dinosaur in the other, pulling at his bottom lip as he made his way towards Mycroft’s office, peering in through the crack in the slightly opened door when he arrived outside the room. 

“The man will be dealt with, of course,” Mycroft was saying, voice self-important and pompous, like the bad guy from when Bunny was old enough for Papa to agree to let them watch Aladdin. “No one would imagine he’d retain his job after such an incident.” 

Sherlock clutched Dimitri and alligator to his chest and his thumb found its way into his mouth as he shifted against the wetness of his pants. He wanted Mycroft to be off the phone. 

Mycroft was talking to important people, and Sherlock wasn’t supposed to interrupt when Mycroft had to work. But he was uncomfortable and the living room was cold and he’d wet too much to clean himself up. He pushed open the office door and stepped inside.

“I’m afraid that’s another impossibility,” Mycroft was saying, leaning back in his office chair. “We cannot accommodate that request.” 

Mycroft’s gaze shifted when Sherlock entered the room. He held up a hand to signal to Sherlock that he was to remain silent, his expression and body language all-business as he continued to speak demeaningly to whomever was on the other line. 

“That’s no longer any concern of ours,” he said, self-importance in his tone. “Good day.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and immediately stood from his chair to cross towards Sherlock.

“Need you, My,” Sherlock said, feeling a bit vulnerable as his brother failed to drop his professional demeanor.

“Sherlock, I'll be with you as soon as possible,” Mycroft was saying. "Right now, I need you to be a big boy while I’m working."

Mycroft’s voice was kind but firm as he took Sherlock by the arm and began leading him out of the office. The phone had begun ringing once more, and Mycroft sighed as he maneuvered Sherlock until he was outside of the office doorway once more. 

Sherlock let tears well up in his eyes, shifting in place at the uncomfortable bulk of the wet pull-up between his legs. 

“Need help,” he mumbled, pleading with his big brother.

“You have to be a big boy for a few minutes,” Mycroft was reiterating as he attempted to close the office door between them, craning his neck to glance towards the ringing phone on the desk behind him. “I’m dealing with very important people who do not like to wait, buddy.” 

Sherlock took a step forward, trying to cling onto Mycroft in a show of neediness. But Mycroft refused to give in to Sherlock’s ploys, separating himself with a promise to finish up as soon as he could. 

Sherlock found himself staring at the closed office door.

There was a moment where tears threatened, but Sherlock did not allow them to take over, instead shifting tactics. If vulnerability wasn’t going to get him his way, maybe naughtiness would. He tossed his plush alligator and dinosaur onto the ground before reaching to push open the office door and marching inside. Mycroft was on the phone once more, something Sherlock chose to ignore. 

“You’re mean,” he accused, face hardening. “I’m going to tell Papa on you.”

Mycroft placed a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone handset, his eyes widening at Sherlock’s impertinence as he pointed towards the doorway, clearly no longer willing to accommodate Sherlock’s cheekiness. 

“Out,” he mouthed, firm and no-nonsense. 

Sherlock knew as soon as Mycroft’s expression changed that he was in big trouble. A part of him toyed with the idea of staying put in the office, of throwing a fit until Mycroft was forced to hang up the phone and deal with him instead of the boring people on the phone. But there was another part of him that remembered the conversations Mycroft had long-ago had with him, back when it was just the two of them ageplaying, when Mycroft explained that there were times Sherlock couldn’t be selfish because there were other people counting on Mycroft’s help. 

Sherlock relented, letting his crossed arms drop as he began to move towards the door with a whine. But just because he understood Mycroft’s job responsibilities did not mean he had to be happy about them. He stomped his way out of the room, down the hallway, and all the way up the stairs--as loudly as he could--to prove his point that Mycroft was nothing but a mean big brother. 

When he reached his room, Sherlock threw himself across the bed and gave into the tantrum he’d wanted to pitch in Mycroft’s office, yelling and crying as he pressed his face into his pillows. 

Mycroft was never there when he wanted him. Even when John was away with Papa and Sherlock should have had Mycroft all to himself, Mycroft had people to deal with who were more important than him. It wasn’t fair, and the resentment he felt--the desire to prove to his big brother he didn't need him, anyway--had him aging up to his teenaged persona, sullen and moody.

His sadness shifted into anger as he shifted up in headspace, and he hurled all the pillows from his bed in a fit of frustration, pleased when one caught the pirate ship lamp and sent it careening from the desk to the floorboards, shattering the ceramic figure of the lamp's base as well as the light bulb. 

He swiped at tears as he scrambled from the bed and bent to examine the shards of ceramic and the exposed filaments of the broken light bulb. 

He didn’t need Mycroft or his fucking coddling, and he didn’t need Greg to take him to work like some damn little kid.

He picked up a piece of ceramic and checked the sharpness of the edge against the pad of his thumb. 

He didn't need anyone. 

He could look after himself just fine.


	14. A Little Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, loves! 
> 
> A quick note that I went back and edited Chapter 12 since I realized it would make much more sense for John to get into a fight with Anderson instead of a random forensics member. Not to mention I'm sure Greg would be much more likely to convince Anderson not to take things further in terms of assault charges than he would to convince someone else. And, it's always fun to bring in a familiar character!
> 
> This chapter is basically angst and accidents, but it does introduce a few questions that will begin to be answered in the following chapters. I have a sense of what's coming next, just need to find the time to get it all on paper! That said, if you have suggestions please send them my way!
> 
> I hope you're all having a great week--sending Bunny kisses :)

Greg felt a pit in the base of his stomach knowing he had exposed his kid to death and murder on a day he hadn’t been prepared for it. He should have paid more attention, should have realized earlier that John had been closer to toddler-mindset than adult, no matter what the man professed. Both Sherlock and John were constantly attempting to prove themselves big; it was Greg’s job to see them for what they really were at any given moment, and, in this case, he had failed.

He merged lanes on the expressway and glanced at the kiddo through the rear-view mirror. The little Bunny was rubbing at his still-reddened eyes, shifting against the seat belt in the backseat. 

Greg wished he had some sort of comfort item to provide for the boy beyond the pacifier he’d tossed into the glove compartment early on in his days of caring for the boys. At the time, he’d had to shrug off Mycroft’s loving teasing about him being far too committed to his role as Papa, but the foresight had clearly paid off. Little John would not be completely content until they were home with his plush rabbit and his blanket and his Daddy, but, for now, Greg would take what they could get from a little bit of red plastic. 

It was unclear exactly what had brought about John’s foray into fighting with Anderson. He’d seen the effects of the man’s temper a time or two, knew John certainly had moments where he gave into the seething anger he often felt and thus resorted to violence. It was, gratefully, a personality trait that plagued adult John often and their mild-mannered Bunny rather infrequently, but it was nevertheless a part of the make-up of John Watson, fits of rage looming like his PTSD-nightmares and Sherlock’s tendency towards self-harm. Greg wanted so badly to save his kids from the pain they felt, from the thoughts that drew them towards unhealthy and destructive coping mechanisms, but, at the moment, all he could do was assure John that he was loved, and get him home to where he would feel safe. 

“Doing okay, there, little one?” Greg asked, catching Bunny’s eye in the rear-view once more. 

Bunny glanced down towards the foot well of the car and shrugged. The kid’s arms were wrapped around himself; he looked miserable and so, so small. Reaching behind him, Greg offered his hand, which Bunny quickly latched onto. It made driving a bit precarious, but Greg shifted into the slow lane and drove carefully with one hand, knowing his kid and knowing that, unlike Sherlock, Bunny needed physical comfort when he was distressed. 

“You know, when I was your age, I wanted to be a firefighter,” Greg said, wanting to validate Bunny’s young mindset while distracting John from what he guessed were triggering thoughts circling his mind.

Bunny glanced up with interest, so Greg continued on, explaining to John how he asked for a firefighter’s outfit one year for Christmas, then detailing the games he would play in the backyard with his big brothers, saving cats from trees and playing with the garden hose to put out pretend fires.

“Eventually, Ma made us stop because the backyard was nothing more than a muddy mess,” he said with the breath of a laugh, relieved when Bunny giggled, too. 

“Papa?” Bunny asked, causing Greg to catch his eye in the rear-view once more. "Am I in trouble when we get home?"

Greg did not want to upset the boy, but he also knew there was no way he could allow the fighting to slide. Even if Greg didn't enforce a punishment, Mycroft certainly would.

"Yes, sweetheart," he said. "You know it's against the rules to use your fists instead of your words."

Bunny nodded, rubbing at one eye. He made a distressed noise which Greg attributed to anticipation of his future punishment until the boy next spoke. 

“Papa?" he said, voice whiny. "I have to go.”

Greg noticed a grimace and a shifting of the kid’s hips. It wasn’t surprising; they’d been working non-stop since just after breakfast. Even Greg had started to feel a slight need, morning coffee making itself known.

“No problem, love,” he said, shifting his eyes back to the road to begin looking for rest stop signs. “I’ll find us a loo, okay?”

Bunny didn’t answer, and Greg couldn’t help but notice the boy was once more close to tears. Perhaps the kid had waited until the last moment to tell him, and was worried he wouldn’t be able to make it? He was grateful when they passed a sign for a rest area just ahead, making sure to pull-off the expressway. Luckily, the parking lot was nearly empty, and he was able to find them a parking spot close to the entrance. 

“Okay, kiddo, let’s get you sorted,” he said as he turned off the car and took the key out of the ignition. He pulled on his jacket—he’d shrugged it off when he was too warm from the heat he’d cranked up for the boy—then stepped out of the car and pulled open the back door. Bunny had a hand pressed between his legs, which he pulled away when Greg was in view.

“It’s okay, kid,” Greg said with compassion in his voice, reaching over to unbuckle the boy. “You’re doing a good job holding it. Let’s just get you inside so we don't have any accidents.” 

But Bunny didn’t move, instead pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. He was crying once more, silent except for a sniffle as tears fell. 

Greg was a bit taken aback. He scanned the boy for a moment, worried that he was too late and the kid had already wet himself, but Bunny’s jeans were dry and he was still squirming where he sat. Greg had also become quite skilled at knowing what a pull-up looked like under clothing, and knew John would never dare wear one to a crime scene. 

“Let’s take you for a quick wee, Bun,” Greg said, squatting down to be at the boy’s level where he sat hunched on the backseat. He raised his arms towards the kid. “Come with Papa.”

Bunny glanced up at Papa’s outstretched arms for a moment before shaking his head and burying his face into his knees, shifting away from Greg when the man reached towards him in an effort to help him out.

Greg took in the boy’s distressed state with a bit of confusion. The boy clearly had to wee--a hand had once more found its way to hold between his legs, and Bunny had never shown any of Sherlock’s aversion to public restrooms, having used them often and without any trouble in the past. Did the boy want to wet himself? Mycroft had told Greg about a time or two when the boy had asked to wee in his pull-up, but John was in pants and trousers and in the back seat of a car. Not to mention they did not have a change of clothes.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Greg asked as Bunny’s grasping at his crotch got more frantic. “Can Papa help?”

Bunny shook his head once more, then looked up at Greg with tearful eyes.

“Pull-up, Papa?” he asked. 

Greg sighed. In the future he would make sure that he had not only back-up toys and comfort items for both boys in his car but also spare pull-ups. However, at the moment there was nothing in the boot of his car but a spare tire and an emergency kit. 

“I’m sorry, Bun. Papa doesn’t have any pull-ups right now,” he said. 

Bunny cried harder, turning his face into his knees once more. 

“Can Papa take you to the loo?” Greg asked, but Bunny only shook his head. 

Bunny sobbed, whining unintelligibly as he choked on tears and squirmed in his seat.

Greg was out of options, concerned when another car pulled up a few parking spaces over and cast glances towards Bunny. Wanting to protect his boy’s privacy, Greg closed Bunny’s door and walked around to climb into the backseat through the other door, closing it behind him and shifting over until he was in the middle seat, where he could gather Bunny close. 

He was pleased to see that the boy did not shy away from him now that he was not attempting to take him out of the car, instead burying his face into his chest as he pressed against his side and cried. But Bunny was wriggling and grabbing himself, and Greg knew they were out of options. 

“Bun,” Greg said when the boy’s sobs had dissipated for the moment. “Look at Papa, please.”

The boy turned his reddened face towards Greg, who wiped away a few stray tears with his thumbs before leaning to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead. 

“I know you have to wee,” he said. “So, we have a few options. You can let Papa take you into the loo and you can use the potty--”

“--No,” Bunny whined, looking distraught, even frightened. 

“--Or,” Greg continued with a sigh, out of alternatives and not wanting to cause his boy any further distress. “If you feel like you can’t go into the loo, you can go in your pants, right here.”

Bunny’s eyes were round when they shifted to meet Greg’s gaze, questioning but, if Greg was reading his boy correctly, hopeful. 

“Is that what you need, kiddo?” Greg asked.

Bunny’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment, but, after a moment, he ducked his head and nodded. 

Greg was unsure of where the boy’s mind was at the moment, but he’d rather the boy not injure himself by attempting to hold onto his urine any longer than he had to. If the boy was suddenly feeling an intense aversion to using the loo, what was the real harm? The kid had had a hard day, and seats could be cleaned. 

“Take your trousers off, love. Let’s at least keep them dry so you don’t have to stay in wet clothes the rest of the ride home. I’ll be right back.” 

Bunny began shimmying out of his jeans as Greg left to pop open the boot of the car. He was hoping he’d remembered correctly about having an old blanket tucked away somewhere, and was relieved when he found it pressed beside the spare tire. 

Bunny’s jeans were balled up in the foot well when Greg returned, the boy sitting in a damp pair of Harry Potter pants. A blush spread across Bunny’s cheeks at being found out wearing cartoon underwear, and Greg once more cursed himself for not realizing just how close to small John had been before they’d even left that morning.

“Put this under your bum,” Greg said.

He could tell by the damp patch on the boy’s pants that they did not have much time, and he helped the boy re-situate himself atop the folded blanket. He toyed with the idea of having the boy take off his pants to spare them as well, but they were already wet, and if the boy was indeed looking to wet himself as some sort of comfort regimen, past experiences made it likely that wetting his clothes was a part of that plan. 

“Okay, baby,” Greg said, praying to gods he didn’t believe in that no one pulled up beside them to witness what was happening. “You can do your wee.”

Bunny looked up at Greg with concern, but Greg nodded with a slight smile, doing his best to reassure the boy that all was okay. 

His face blazing with embarrassment, Bunny took the hand out from between his legs and, head bent to watch, began to wee. He sighed in relief, urine streaming to soak the crotch of his undies before beginning to spread beneath him across the blanket. Bunny pressed the bulk of the blanket between his legs as he weed, the moisture quickly being wicked away by the fabric. Greg glanced away after he knew the boy had released, but the sound of Bunny’s stream told him the kid had been holding for a while, that he’d been desperate. 

When Bunny was finished, he sniffled, then glanced up when Greg turned back to him. The boy was shame-faced but clearly content.

“Good boy,” Greg said, knowing Mycroft would not approve of praise for the lapse in potty training but wanting to relax the kid as his first priority. “Let’s get you cleaned up, love.” 

Greg did his best with what he had--helping Bunny out of his saturated pants, using the dry sections of the blanket to wipe him off, and re-dressing him in the trousers he’d asked the boy to take off. As he bundled the blanket and wet pants into the boot of the car, Greg was adding to the list of necessaries he would be stocking up on: spare clothes, baby wipes, plastic bags. Luckily, the accident had been contained by the folds of the blanket, so he was able to settle the boy back into his seat and buckle him in once more.

“Itchy, Papa,” Bunny said, wiping at his runny nose above the pacifier and looking as exhausted as Greg felt. “Yucky.”

“I know, love,” Greg said, knowing the most important thing was to ensure the boy was not embarrassed about asking for what he needed. “But we’ll get you home and into the tub and you’ll feel good as new.” 

Greg kissed the boy on the forehead.

“Love you, kiddo,” he said. 

Greg closed the back door, then circled around to the driver’s seat. Greg had been hoping he’d get a chance in the loo as well, his own need pressing, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Bunny alone at the moment, and it was clear the kid had some aversion to the rest stop bathroom. He’d be fine until they made it the last twenty-five minutes home to Mycroft’s. 

They drove in relative silence, Greg anticipating what he would say both to fill Mycroft in and to preempt the lecture the man would give him about taking John to the crime scene when he was so clearly not in the correct headspace. He would take Mycroft’s chastising with a grain of salt and shift the man’s focus to the kids. It was essential that they get to the bottom of what had been bothering John at the crime scene, of what had plagued him enough that he’d fought with Anderson, dropped into headspace, and then felt the need to wet his pants in the backseat rather than use the rest stop loo. 

“Close your eyes, little one,” Greg said when he caught Bunny in a yawn. “It’s past your nap time and it’s been a long morning. You could use the rest.”

“Okay, Papa,” Bunny mumbled, his eyes half-lidded as he let himself slump down until his head was resting against the armrest of the door. “But I’m not a baby.” 

“Of course not,” Greg said with a smirk he hid from the kiddo. “You’re Papa’s big kid.” 

“Yeah,” Bunny said through a yawn, reaching to hold his pacifier in place when it threatened to tip out of his mouth. “Big boy, Papa.” 

Greg turned down the music on the radio, knowing the boy would be asleep in moments. He was grateful, knowing John hadn’t slept well the night before. They really needed to get the kids back into a routine, and Greg wished not for the first time that their schedules would allow for set, planned ageplay sessions. It was when the boys had gone far too long without the emotional release that they ran into trouble. Maybe if he'd insisted John take some time out to be Bunny, the man wouldn't have gotten into a fist fight with Greg's primary crime scene technician in a dingy motel room. 

It was when they were roughly fifteen minutes from Mycroft’s that Greg’s mobile began to vibrate. He glanced into the rear-view to ensure the kid was still asleep, then silenced the phone as he glanced at the caller ID. Sherlock. 

Greg sighed; Sherlock was not allowed his cell phone while in headspace, which either meant he’d be earning himself a time-out for breaking the rules, or that something had happened to shift him out of headspace. 

“Hey, kid,” he said when he answered, voice quiet to keep Bunny from waking. “What’s up?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked, attempting to keep the worry from his voice. 

“Where are you?” Sherlock asked all at once, his demanding tone of voice just as easily child as it could be adult, which didn’t help answer Greg’s questions about Sherlock’s headspace. 

“I’m driving, bud,” Greg said. “What’s wrong?” 

There was a pause, then mumbling that Greg could not understand. They had just turned off the expressway, and he took advantage of the side streets to pull off on the side of the road. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock breathed at last. “I didn’t mean to.”

Now Greg’s worry was sent into overdrive. The kid didn’t sound as if he were in his youngest headspaces. He sounded more akin to his middle or teenaged self, the selves Sherlock was most likely to get in real trouble within. 

“It’s okay, I promise I’m not mad,” Greg said, knowing there was a real chance Sherlock would hang up were he to feel uncomfortable talking. “Where’s Mycroft, sweetheart?”

“In his damn office,” Sherlock said, voice suddenly caustic and unmistakably teenaged. “He wouldn’t care even if I fell down the stairs and broke my legs.” 

It sounded as if the boy were close to tears, then there were some mumbled swear words and what sounded a bit like a gasp. What was going on? 

“Sherlock, Mycroft cares for you very much.” 

“I didn’t fucking mean to,” the boy said again, and then, sniffling, voice smaller: “I’m in so much trouble.” 

The line was cut off before Greg could say anything else, and Sherlock’s phone went to voicemail when Greg hurriedly called back. Swearing under his breath and advising himself against expecting the worst and working himself up, Greg pulled back onto the road and began to make his way, pushing speed limits. He called Mycroft’s phone on the way, but the man immediately sent him to voicemail as well, clearly unaware of the current state of Sherlock. 

Greg set down his phone with a sigh and glared at the red light. Maybe he should have followed his first career instinct, after all; he certainly felt as if he were spending his day putting out one fire after another.


	15. A Little Clean-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words on the last chapter, lovelies! It's been a tough few days for me, but I'm hoping I'm out of the woods and that things will start to look up soon. If you're in a similar state, know I'm sending you love and encouragement--we got this :) 
> 
> Lots of angst/comfort in this chapter. 221bCupOfTeaAndSherlock requested some Greg/Sherlock love, which was a perfect direction to take this chapter. Thanks for the suggestion!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE heed the tags for this chapter, loves (read: depictions of and discussion around self-harm). If this is triggering for you, please practice self-care and perhaps skip this story until this particular plot point is resolved.

Sherlock wasn’t supposed to at all, and especially not when he was young. But the shards of ceramic from the broken pirate ship scattered along the floorboards had taunted him, and when they hadn’t been sharp enough to do more than scratch, the pieces of glass from the shattered light bulb glimmered with the promise of a far more destructive result. 

He had a half-formed fantasy of going to Mycroft after it was done and letting his big brother deduce what had happened, of forcing him to pay attention once and for all.

But the power he’d felt and the thrill he experienced as he gave into his vindictive streak were nothing but momentary flashes of adrenaline. And, after it all, he was left not with superiority and revenge, but with a sobering guilt. The teenage angst that had plagued him when he’d picked up a glass shard wavered into helplessness. Blood stained his sleeve when he yanked it down to hide what he’d done, and all he could think about was how much trouble he was in. 

He’d been doing well. He’d had days when the depression threatened to overwhelm him, when it stifled the positive thoughts and left him huddled and alone even when he had company. But he hadn’t hurt himself, not in months. Mycroft had been keeping tabs, checking when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking.

He dropped the glass to the floor and stepped around to the other side of the bedroom. He couldn’t face Mycroft. Mycroft would take responsibility for Sherlock’s actions, would struggle to hide his disappointment and then blame himself. He would think he’d failed Sherlock. 

Sherlock needed Papa--pragmatic, problem-solving Papa who would know what to do and the right things to say. 

But he couldn’t make the words come out right on the mobile; Papa was with Bunny, which made Sherlock remember the way John had kissed the healing cuts, had told Sherlock he was proud of the progress he was making, which made his throat tighten and his chest feel heavy. 

“Where’s Mycroft, sweetheart?” Papa was asking 

“In his damn office,” Sherlock said, suddenly defensive and moody again because it was the easiest way to combat the self-hatred. “He wouldn’t care even if I fell down the stairs and broke my legs.” 

It was a lie, but one Sherlock had to tell to keep himself from breaking down into tears over the thought of Mycroft discovering what he'd done. 

“Sherlock, Mycroft cares for you very much,” Papa said, and Sherlock already knew that. He didn’t need a reminder of that fact at the moment, didn’t need Papa emphasizing just how much Sherlock had screwed up. 

“I didn’t fucking mean to,” Sherlock argued, but the anger was exhausting to keep up, and his eyes were filling with tears. “I’m in so much trouble,” he said, voice small when it was too hard to keep up the vexation. 

He let the mobile fall, then sank to the floor between his bed and his desk. He couldn’t explain it anymore, couldn’t talk to Papa without breaking down, couldn't handle the shifting headspaces between angry and sad. 

He pulled the duvet from the bed, yanking it over his head to hide himself away.

He knew he should change his pants; the pull-up was starting to sting a bit where the wetness had been against his skin for too long, and his trousers were cold where the pull-up had leaked. But he didn’t have the energy. Everything seemed insurmountably difficult at the moment, and he could do nothing but slink down to lay curled with his knees to his chest, hidden beneath the duvet cover as he sucked his thumb. And then there was suddenly nothing but tears, loud guttural sounds sobbed into the thick pile of the rug beneath him. 

He cried because he wanted Papa and because he’d wet his pants, because he’d let everyone down and because John and Mycroft were going to be so disappointed. But most of all he cried because the hopeless thoughts had been with him all day, because nothing he’d tried had made them go away and he’d only succeeded in making everything worse.

\----

Sherlock’s throat was raw from crying by the time he heard footsteps on the staircase. There was a moment of panic where he curled up tighter into a ball and shifted partially beneath the bed, worried it was Mycroft coming to check in on him. But the footsteps on the staircase were slow and heavy, not Mycroft’s quick and purposeful gait. Papa was home, and was likely carrying Bunny. Sherlock felt his heart pounding. He was desperate for someone to find him, yet dreading the moment it would happen.

“Get some rest, kiddo,” Sherlock heard Papa say in Bunny’s room after a few minutes had passed. 

And then Sherlock heard the door that connected his room to Bunny’s squeak on its hinges as it closed, and he knew he was alone with Papa. 

“Sherlock, love?”

Papa’s voice was at its gentlest, which made Sherlock feel like crying again. He yanked the duvet tighter around him. 

“I’m going to wait right here, buddy,” Papa said, his voice close enough that Sherlock assumed he’d taken a seat on the ground close by. “When you’re ready to come out, I’ll be here.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He was used to drastic action being taken when there were suspicions he’d hurt himself. He was used to loud voices making demands and grasping hands pulling him one way or another. He was used to being made to feel inconsequential and naughty. 

Papa’s distance made Sherlock feel respected, maybe even in-charge.

“I’m proud of you for calling me, Sherlock,” Papa said after a moment. “I know it isn’t always easy to ask for help.” 

Sherlock was about to argue that he hadn’t asked for help during any point in their phone conversation, but as he opened his mouth, he could see all at once that of course the entire phone call had been nothing more than a poorly disguised cry for help. He’d needed to know Papa was coming to keep him from taking things even further, that Papa would make things better. 

He pulled the duvet off of his face just enough to look out at Papa with one eye.

“Don’t tell Mycroft?” Sherlock asked. 

“Let’s not fuss about that right now, love,” Papa said, voice still gentle as he glanced at him with care. “You had me worried, and I’d like to know you’re okay.” 

The man was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the rug. Sherlock crawled slowly towards him until he could lay his head on Papa’s knee. He wasn’t quite ready to show Papa what he’d done, so he remained cocooned in the blanket, but he was glad for the comfort and desperately grateful he was no longer alone. Papa began to card his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, which made Sherlock cry again. 

“I was bad, Papa,” he said, sniffling into the man’s trousers. “I was really bad.” 

Papa reached to pull him closer, shifting Sherlock until his upper body was cradled in Papa’s arms. He continued to stroke Sherlock’s hair, steady and comforting.

“You made the wrong decision after a hard day, kiddo,” he said, voice sure and kind. “Sometimes it can be hard to ignore the bad thoughts.”

“Don’t tell Mycroft,” Sherlock said again. “Or John.” 

Sherlock knew that Greg was just as saddened by Sherlock hurting himself as Mycroft and John would be, but somehow Papa never let him feel as if he took it personally when Sherlock hurt himself. He reacted almost just as if Sherlock had wet his pants or spilled his juice, dealing with the issue logically, step-by-step until the problem was handled. It was why Sherlock had called him, why he had been so desperate for his help. 

“How about we get you cleaned up,” Papa suggested, neglecting to answer Sherlock’s request for the moment. “We can cuddle a bit once we’ve cleaned up your boo-boos and you’re in some dry clothes, and we can talk if you feel up to it?” 

Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t sure how Papa always seemed to know when Sherlock had had an accident. He supposed he must have some sort of tell that he hadn’t bothered to self-identify just yet. In any case, he was grateful that he didn’t have to explain it all to Papa on top of the cuts on his arm. 

“You’ll stay with me?” Sherlock asked, needing to make sure.

Papa nodded as he leaned to kiss Sherlock on the forehead.

“I’ll stay with you, love. Until you tell me otherwise, okay?” 

Sherlock had absolutely no intention of letting Papa out of his sight anytime soon. He latched onto Papa’s hand when the man helped him to his feet, and pressed against his side as they made their way to the hallway loo, where Papa set about running a bath. 

“Is John-John still big?” Sherlock asked, balancing himself on Papa’s shoulders as the man, seated on the edge of the bathtub, leaned to help him step out of his wet trousers. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could face an adult John at the moment, at least not when John was likely to find out Sherlock had hurt himself. He could sense Papa didn’t want him to focus on Mycroft or John at the moment, but Sherlock couldn’t help it. He needed as much information as possible so he could anticipate the potential scenarios. 

“John is small at the moment,” Papa said, helping Sherlock out of his shirt and only pausing momentarily when the four cuts along Sherlock’s arm were exposed. “He had a tough time today, too, so he's resting right now.”

Sherlock pulled his arm behind him when he caught Papa’s glance. But Papa was moistening a flannel in warm water, and gestured for Sherlock to hold out his arm, which he did after a bit of hesitation. Papa held his wrist gently and dabbed at the cuts to clean them up a bit. Sherlock was grateful he didn’t say anything. 

“Plasters, Papa?” Sherlock asked. 

They wouldn’t fool Mycroft, who would know what a line of four plasters meant, but they would hide the cuts, and maybe, if Bunny was small enough, he could be convinced Sherlock had just gotten an owie. 

“After your bath, champ.” 

Papa tested the water temperature and adjusted it until he was satisfied, then rooted around beneath the sink for a few of Sherlock’s favorite dinosaur bath toys, which he dropped into the water before taking a seat once more on the edge of the bathtub. He gestured for Sherlock--standing in nothing but a wet pull-up--to come close once again. 

“Do you have to go potty?” Papa asked, and Sherlock shook his head, stepping close to Papa so the man could yank down the saturated pull-up and help him step out of the heavy garment. 

“How long have you been in a wet pull-up?” Papa asked with concern in his voice, bringing a pink blush to Sherlock’s cheeks. 

Sherlock shrugged, averting his eyes and mumbling about losing track of time, about not knowing he had to go and Mycroft not reminding him and then not realizing he needed changing. He sensed he was only adding to the list of things that were disappointing Papa, and he felt like crying again. 

“Hey, buddy, I’m not mad,” Papa said, reaching to take both of Sherlock’s nervous hands in his own. “I was just wondering because you have a rash, kiddo.”

Sherlock whined, glancing down towards the red splotches on his skin and realizing that the pain he’d assumed would go away when he was stripped of the wet pull-up was still stinging. 

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock said, feeling rather irrational.

Papa nodded, and Sherlock whined again. He knew he should have changed out of the wet pull-up. He’d had diaper rash before, had suffered through the biting pain and the irritation. He hated it; it made him feel like such a baby when Mycroft had put rash cream on him. 

“I know, champ,” Papa said, “But the bath will help. Let Papa take care of it.”

Sherlock fussed a bit more, but allowed Papa to help him into the bath. He was tired of worrying about how to fix his mistakes, tired of replaying what he’d done again and again in his mind. He slumped into the bath with a sigh, then leaned his head onto Papa’s hand where the man was resting it on the lip of the tub. 

At least he didn't have to deal with it all himself anymore. Papa was there, trustworthy and competent and good.


	16. A Little Calmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, loves!
> 
> I will fully admit that this is a bit of a filler-chapter, but I wanted to make sure I updated before Christmas so you can all imagine the boys settled and cared for after the turmoil of the last few chapters. It’s a bit shorter than most of my updates, which I apologize for! I have so many ideas for this story, but, unfortunately, fan fiction doesn’t pay the bills ;p
> 
> I’d love to get a Christmas-themed one-shot up in the near future if I can. I’ve been feeling like I may need a teeny writing break from the heaviness of this story at the moment, so a one-shot would be a perfect way to break out of the mold, so to speak. I don’t think it will be up before Christmas, but potentially a few days after! Let me know if you have any one-shot storyline suggestions!
> 
> I hope you all are doing wonderfully and enjoying the holiday season. I can’t wait for the snow to come (whenever that will be) and am excited for a bit of a break from the everyday while I celebrate the holidays! 
> 
> Sending you all love and bunny kisses!
> 
> xoxoxo
> 
> P.S. there’s a good chance I’ll come back later and update/edit this chapter. I’m posting from my phone while travelling, which is always a bit of a pain for editing!

Greg set Sherlock to picking the colors of plasters he wanted to place on the cuts along his arm, distracting the boy as he rooted in the medicine cabinet for diaper rash cream. He was banking on the idea that Mycroft would have some from past experiences of a stubborn Sherlock sitting around for too long in a wet diaper, but there wasn’t anything immediately visible, and he’d been forced to begin shifting shaving creams and craning towards the top shelf in the hopes that he wouldn’t come up empty-handed.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet and clingy, his behavior more akin to Bunny on his neediest days than any expected version of Little Sherlock. The shift in behavior worried Greg. Sherlock was so often independent that nerves settled in when he became less self-sufficient. The boy hadn’t resorted to self-harm in quite some time, and the fact that they’d come barrelling back to the darkest blues of Sherlock’s countenance was a sobering reminder that there was no expiration date on depression. Sherlock’s was a constant possibility, unpredictable and harsh. 

“I want these ones, Papa,” the boy said, holding up a fistful of plasters.

The contents of the various plaster boxes were scattered across the sink. Sherlock had let the towel drop from where Greg had wrapped it around his shoulders, seemingly unconcerned with nudity as he presented his chosen plasters. 

“Okay, champ,” Greg said with a smile, closing the medicine cabinet and bending to open the cabinet beneath the sink. “Give me one second and we’ll get you all sorted.”

There had to be diaper cream somewhere in Mycroft’s collection of toiletries; given his history of age play with Sherlock, it only made sense. He was starting to think perhaps Mycroft kept the rash cream in the master bath when he came across a half-empty tube towards the back of the cabinet. He smiled at Sherlock in relief, rash cream in hand. Here was one problem he could solve. 

After bundling the boy back into his towel to keep him from catching a chill, he ushered him to the master bedroom. Sherlock’s room was still a mess of broken lamps and light bulbs, of duvets cast off beds and cushions tossed around the room in what Greg assumed had been an earlier fit of Sherlock’s anger. He would clean up the kid’s room once he’d gotten him settled down for a nap. For now, he thought it best that Sherlock be taken to a neutral space, away from reminders of the low points of his morning. He knew there was a clean basket of the boys’ laundry in the master bedroom, which saved him from having to root through Sherlock’s room for clean clothes. 

It was a testament to the unusually pliable mindset Sherlock was in that he climbed up onto the bed to be dressed without so much as an aggravated whine. Greg applied the diaper cream liberally, then settled the kid into a fresh pair of pants. It was likely Sherlock wouldn’t have fought against being put in a pull-up or a diaper, but Greg was hoping he could get Sherlock to use the loo for the rest of the day, knowing the drier he could keep the kid the faster his rash would heal. 

“You need to tell Papa right away if you have to wee, love,” Greg said, patting Sherlock’s thigh to let him know they were all finished with the change. “We don’t want your rash to get worse if you have any little accidents.”

Greg had to admit it was a relief when the signs of Sherlock’s self-harm were masked by the brightly colorful children’s plasters; it made the whole ordeal seem a bit less heartbreaking. 

With his pair of shark pajamas and a tossle of the kid’s damp hair, Sherlock was just about sorted. But Greg knew he would not feel fully content until he had both of his boys in his arms. 

“Should we go and get your brother?” he asked as he helped Sherlock into one of his own jumpers to keep him warm. 

Sherlock nodded, and Greg offered him a hand as he led him to Bunny’s room. 

Greg had done a quick-clean up of Bunny before situating him in bed, cleaning the urine from his skin with baby wipes before hastily putting him to bed in his undershirt and a fresh pull-up. Luckily, the exhausted man had slept through most of the clean-up job, so Greg had been able to get to Sherlock without a delay. 

Now, he hefted a still-sleeping Bunny--cuddling his baby blanket--into his arms and carried him back down the hallway to the master bedroom. Sherlock trailed close, holding onto the hem of Greg’s now untucked button-down as well as Bunny’s old lion plush, which Greg hoped would be an adequate substitute for Sherlock’s own plush toys for the moment. 

“Climb on in, champ,” he told Sherlock as he pulled back the duvet and sheet before settling Bunny into bed.

He rooted around in his bedside table before coming up with a spare pacifier, which he held out on the flat of his plan towards Sherlock, whose thumb had made its way into his mouth. The boy hesitated for only a moment before accepting it, and he pushed it into his mouth as Greg settled into bed between the boys, pulling the blankets up to Bunny’s chin and lifting an arm to wrap around Sherlock as the boy lay his head on his chest. 

An anxiety Greg hadn’t realized he was clinging to at long last began to settle. Not only was Sherlock cleaned up and supervised, but Bunny was resting after the ordeals of his morning at the crime scene, and he had both boys in his arms. There were questions to be answered about what was going on in the mind of each boy, solutions to find for problems Greg did not yet fully understand, and conversations to be had with the boys and with Mycroft. For the moment, however, he knew they were safe, and that was paramount. 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Sherlock mumbled around the pacifier, lifting a hand to rub at an eye with his wrist. 

Greg bent to place a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and gentle.

He could sense that Sherlock was waiting for him to tell him he was forgiven, that it would all be forgotten. But Sherlock needed to understand that harming himself was not an acceptable coping mechanism. Greg and Mycroft had long ago spoken about the response Sherlock needed: comfort and assurance without false promises or indulgence. 

“Would you like to talk about it now or later, bud?” Greg asked. “Because a conversation is over due.”

“Later, Papa?” Sherlock asked, and the puppy-dog eyes he gave Greg were enough to get Greg to relent in his need for questioning. Sherlock yawned. “I’m warm now, and I can almost forget if I feel really little.” 

Greg understood Sherlock’s need for some time, knew the boy was teetering closer to a younger headspace and would likely be yanked older if he was forced to process and explain. A conversation would be had, but it could wait, if only for an hour or two. 

“Tell me a story, Papa?” Sherlock asked, and from over his other shoulder Greg heard a mumbled “yeah, story, Papa,” from a half-awake Bunny. 

Greg was more used to reading bedtime stories than he was used to coming up with stories on the spot, but he knew they were close to sleep, and a few drawn-out sentences would likely settle them. 

“Once upon a time,” he began, already forming some half-brained idea about a reindeer flying a boy to a winter wonderland. 

“—Dinosaurs, Papa,” Sherlock said.

“—and bunnies,” Bunny added.

“—and a pirate.”

“—but not a scary one.”

Greg breathed a laugh and hushed the boys, telling them not to worry, just to listen. 

“Lay down, now,” he said, prompting the boys to settle their heads back into his shoulder or chest. “Let Papa tell his story.” 

The story wasn’t particularly prolific or eloquent, but Greg had to admit he could tell a pretty good adventure tale when prompted. Not that the boys were much aware. They were both asleep within five minutes, sucking their pacifiers as they cuddled comfort items to their chests. 

Greg wouldn’t have had it any other way. After the ordeals of the morning, there was nothing he wanted more than to know that Sherlock and John were safe in his care, comfortable and cared-for, if only for the moment.


	17. Little by Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I thought I would be updating 'Family Christmas' this weekend, but I realized just how long I'd neglected this story and finally buckled down to write this chapter. It's long and probably a bit too wordy for most tastes, but it took a good many hours to write and edit so hopefully it'll be okay :) 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of self-harm, discussions of self-harm, and for spanking. Please take care of yourself and don't read if you feel it may be triggering!
> 
> Also, a quick note that I've made minor edits to two previous chapters that probably nobody would notice but I'm mentioning anyway. The super small one was just a nit-picky detail in Chapter 16 about pajamas, and the somewhat larger one was an edit to Chapter 13, where I felt in re-reading Mycroft's response to Sherlock that he was a bit too harsh, to the point of being out of character for this storyline. I'm hoping now his reaction to Sherlock interrupting him is simply poor-intentioned rather than cold-hearted. 
> 
> Suggestions are welcome--hope you're all doing well :)
> 
> Sending bunny kisses!

Mycroft knew something was wrong when, after hanging up the phone for the day and leaving his office at long last to check-in on Sherlock, he found an empty living room and, upstairs, a clearly rage-fueled mess in his little brother’s bedroom. His looming sense of concern only grew when he checked his mobile to find a string of missed calls and texts from Greg, the tone of each progressing from concern to anger to resolved disappointment.

Mycroft sighed, beginning to piece together a tentative outline of events based on the snippets of Greg’s texts he’d caught while scrolling, the state of Sherlock’s bedroom, and a bathroom strewn with shrugged off clothes and bath toys. He owed both Sherlock and Greg not only an explanation, but also, he was beginning to understand, an apology. 

The kids may have been asleep on either side of Greg in the master bedroom, but Greg was more than awake, raising an eyebrow in judgement that Mycroft was not in a position to begrudge. 

He opened his mouth to address him, but Greg shook his head, shifting to carefully remove Sherlock’s arm from where the boy had wrapped it around his stomach and maneuvering John back onto his pillow in order to allow himself the space to climb from beneath the bedclothes and step out into the hallway, where he met Mycroft after pulling the door nearly closed behind him. 

“What were you thinking?” Greg asked, voice low in volume to keep the kids from waking but harsh in its color. “You left that boy alone when you knew he was having a rough time of it today.”

Mycroft could not help but feel defensive at the immediate reprimanded. Yes, he should have done a better job of monitoring Sherlock that morning. But he had been inundated with phone calls, had spent hours solving problems that would have taken others weeks to work their way through. He was inclined to think he’d done rather well, all told. 

“It was a matter of national importance,” he argued, resentful of Greg’s implications given that the man had also chosen work over their scheduled ageplay weekend. “There was nothing to be done.”

“He cut himself, Mycroft,” Greg said, meeting his eyes to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I found him huddled on the floor of his bedroom with a piece of glass.” 

The next four arguments Mycroft had pre-planned for the conversation were immediately silenced, futile in the ghastly memories of Sherlock’s self-harm. His face fell, shoulders releasing the tension they’d been holding in his earlier attempt to defend his actions. 

“Damn,” he said, eyes slipping closed as he ran a hand down his face. “Is he alright?”

“He’s alright, now,” Greg nodded, glancing back into the master bedroom through the small sliver of the opened doorway. “Just a bit shaken up.” 

Mycroft should have known. Given Sherlock’s depressed state that morning and his insecurity over Mycroft’s caring for John the night before, self-harm was clearly a possibility. The warning signs had been there. Mycroft simply hadn’t paid them any mind. 

“He’d been doing so well,” Mycroft said with a sigh.

But it was a poor excuse for having let his guard down, and he could feel the tendrils of self-criticism begin to curve their sharp way into his mind. 

“Damn,” he said, both guilty and angry at himself for not seeing. “I should have realized.” 

“Neither of us showed the best judgement this morning,” Greg said, tone finally softer as he seemed to commiserate with the self-hatred crossing Mycroft’s face. “I wasn’t exactly the model parent today, either.”

Greg ran a hand along the back of his neck as Mycroft waited for him to explain. 

“You were right about John not being ready for a crime scene,” Greg said, seemingly resolved to his mistakes. He glanced into the bedroom once more before turning to meet Mycroft’s gaze. “The kid got into a fist-fight with Anderson.”

“He hit him?” Mycroft asked, incredulous.

Greg nodded, gesturing for Mycroft to keep his voice down.

“And then he aged down almost faster than I could get him away,” he said. 

“Is Anderson going to press charges?” Mycroft asked, concern manifesting itself in a preoccupation with the practicalities, a carry-over from spending the morning in problem-solving mode. “How injured is he?”

“Nothing broken,” Greg explained.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, knowing there was more information to be had. 

“There was a bloody nose involved,” Greg relented. “And what I hope was not a broken cheekbone.”

John’s anger was something they often let run its course, the child-John so rarely succumbing to its vice grip. That said, it was irresponsible of them not to have prepared for the possibility. John had suffered a PTSD nightmare and a panic attack the night before, had spent the morning struggling against self-disgust, shame, and shifting headspaces. It was no wonder he’d acted out under pressure. 

“I think I managed to convince Anderson not to take it further for the moment,” Greg explained. “I reminded him that any investigation would bring his own professionalism before the incident into scrutiny, which seemed to at least sober him enough to question the effectiveness of pressing charges. Donovan took him to get checked out, and she promised to follow-up.”

Mycroft sighed. They had both messed up spectacularly, ignoring warning signs and losing sight of their kids in the landscape of work. Now, it was their responsibility to put it right. 

“I’ll handle Sherlock,” Mycroft said, knowing there were both apologies to be made and punishments to be doled out. “You need to punish the Bunny.” 

Mycroft could see from Greg’s expression that the man was hesitant. As far as Mycroft was concerned, there was no question that John’s behavior that day was cause for a spanking. But it was no secret that neither John nor Greg was a fan of physical punishments. 

“He needs to learn,” Mycroft said, tone no-nonsense and certain. “And it needs to come from you.” 

——

Greg sat in the desk chair of Bunny’s bedroom, struggling to find the words to begin the conversation he knew needed to be had with the wide-eyed kid perched on the edge of the bed. Despite his earlier protests against a younger headspace, John had aged down fully after the emotional ordeals of the morning. He was nervously chewing on a thumbnail as he clutched his plush rabbit and baby blanket to his chest. His face was lined from sleep, and he was still rubbing at tired eyes after being woken prematurely from his nap. He looked the picture of innocence and trust, which only increased Greg’s feelings of dread over what he knew needed to happen next. 

“In trouble, Papa?” Bunny asked when minutes had passed without Greg finding words.

Greg sighed, nodding with sympathetic eyes. 

“Yes, baby,” he said. 

Mycroft would have made the kid give up his comfort items in the midst of punishment, but Greg couldn’t bear to leave the kid without some semblance of familiarity, at least for the moment. 

“Papa needs to talk to you about this morning.” 

Mycroft was right, of course. John had earned himself a harsh punishment after using his fists instead of his words. But Greg was hesitant about spankings, and was feeling both responsible for John’s outburst--after all, he’d been the one who’d permitted the kid to tag along to the crime scene in the first place--and conflicted about using violence to punish violence. 

Greg began at the place he felt the most certain. 

“Bun, I need to apologize to you, kiddo,” he said. “It wasn’t right of me to bring you to the crime scene when you clearly weren’t ready to be there.” 

Bunny shifted where he sat, and Greg hoped he would not pull the kid out of headspace; the conversation would likely need very different tactics were Greg to be faced with an adult John. But the kid seemed as shy and endearing as ever, his mouth turning down at the corners as he shook his head and glanced to the ground. 

“Not Papa’s fault,” he said, voice quiet. “Told you I was big when I wasn’t.” 

“Even so, it’s my job to look out for you and to understand what’s best for you. This morning, I didn’t follow through on that job.” 

The kid was wringing the corner of his blanket in his fists, nervously glancing back and forth between the floorboards and Greg. 

“‘s okay,” Bunny said, clearly not convinced that Greg had been at fault. 

“Can you tell me what happened today between you and Anderson, kiddo?” Greg asked, voice gentle as he rested his elbows on his knees to lean forward.

There were tears forming in the kid’s eyes when he next met Greg’s gaze, and he was frowning again, but his face was set as if he were trying to keep from breaking down. Greg reached out to place a hand on the boy’s knee in assurance. 

“The man on the floor…” Bunny tried, unable to keep the tears from falling. “They...they were laughing.” 

Greg could no longer bear to see the boy so nervous and afraid. 

“Come here, lady bug,” Greg said, holding his arms out and guiding the boy to the rocking chair, where he sat before settling the boy into his lap. It was clear whatever had impacted John that morning was still affecting the boy now. “Papa’s got you.” 

“Didn’t like ‘em laughing,” Bunny said as Greg wiped tears from his cheeks. “Wasn’t nice.” 

“Is that why you hit Anderson, bud? Because they were laughing?”

Bunny nodded, rubbing tears from his eyes as he sniffled. 

Greg could understand respect for the dead, and knew it was not beneath Anderson and his forensics lackeys to take the piss out of some poor bloke who’d been strangled to death, but why John would have been angry enough to start a fist fight over a bit of workplace teasing was still unclear. John’s anger was often unpredictable, but Greg had never known it to be unprovoked.

“Is that the only reason, baby?”

Bunny glanced up hesitantly, then shrugged. 

“Use your words, love.” 

“Used to go to places like that,” Bunny said, and Greg was grateful that he was close enough to hear the kid’s whispered phrases.

“To motels?” Greg clarified, prompting the boy to continue.

Bunny nodded. 

“To...to find him,” he said.

Greg’s first thought was of John searching for Sherlock in one of his many known drug dens, but he had never known Sherlock to have been found in the type of dingy motel they’d visited that morning. This had to be an aspect of John’s life that Greg had not yet become privy to, perhaps from his days in the military, but more likely, given the man’s sudden drop in age after the fight, from his childhood. 

“He looked like him,” Bunny whispered, tears spilling over onto his cheeks once more as he pressed his face into Greg’s collarbone.

And Greg understood. John rarely spoke about his father, but the murder victim had been late-thirties, stocky in the shoulders but not particularly tall in stature. It didn’t take a Holmes brother to discern that John had been defending his father against Anderson’s snide remarks. 

“Okay,” Greg said, holding the boy close as he ran a hand up and down his back to comfort him. “Papa understands, Bun.” 

Greg let Bunny cry, rocking him gently in the rocking chair and telling him that he was safe and loved. 

“‘M sorry I got in a fight,” Bunny said when the tears had started to clear up. “Didn’t mean to.” 

“I know, little one,” Greg said, shifting the boy so that he was sitting up on his lap in a way that let him see his face. “You were feeling a lot of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with, and that’s hard.”

Bunny nodded, fiddling once more with the corner of his baby blanket. 

“But you know it’s against the rules to use your fists instead of your words,” Greg admonished, knowing he needed to turn to the task at hand no matter how much he was dreading it.

“Am I getting a spanking?” Bunny asked, voice a whisper once more. 

Greg knew what Mycroft would say: such flagrant disobedience deserved a spanking, no matter the consequences. But the kid looked so afraid, and Greg was starting to realize that there was even more to John’s sordid childhood past than he or Mycroft had first suspected. John had trusted Greg with a bit more vulnerability, and he was not about to ruin that by scaring the kid out of being honest in the future. 

“Not today, kiddo,” he said, resolving to stand up to Mycroft were he to question his final decision. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not being punished.”

He patted Bunny on the leg to signal that he needed him to stand up, then led him to the green desk beside the bureau, gesturing for the kid to sit. Trusting that Mycroft had stocked the kids’ desks when he’d first set up the rooms for their little selves, he rummaged in the drawers until he found a pad of paper and a ladybug pencil, which Bunny gasped at, clearly unaware that such a colorfully fun item had been inside his desk all along. 

Pulling the pad of paper towards himself, Greg wrote I will use my words instead of my fists on the top line in clear, bold script before pushing it back in front of Bunny. 

“I need you to hand over Willa and blanket,” he said, holding out his hands for the comfort items. “You are going to write this line 150 times to think about the poor decisions you made today.”

Bunny looked distraught at the prospect of parting with his friends, but Greg was firm, knowing that he needed to mean business were the kid to feel the full effect of the punishment, and Bunny passed them over. 

“And you’ll have an early bedtime tonight,” Greg explained. “No arguments. Do you understand?” 

Bunny’s eyes were filling with tears once more, but the kid nodded.

“Yes, Papa,” he said, picking up the pencil.

“Good boy,” Greg said, taking a seat on the end of the bed as the kid began to write his first line.

Greg was content in the knowledge that he was holding the kid accountable for his actions without confusing him by punishing violence with violence. Mycroft had told him it was his responsibility to discipline John, and Greg had done exactly that, in the way he saw fit. 

\----

Mycroft stood by the window of the master bedroom while Sherlock, unconsciously running his fingers along the sleeve covering the arm he’d cut, sat cross-legged in the middle of unmade sheets on the large bed. He’d been awake when Mycroft and Greg had re-entered the bedroom, glaring at Mycroft in a way that made it clear the kid was not particularly happy with big brother. 

“You ignored me,” Sherlock said after Greg had led John out of the bedroom. Just like you did last night went unspoken, but the sentiment of repetitive betrayal did not go unnoticed. 

It was clear Sherlock was not entirely child at the moment, pushed out of headspace as some sort of defense mechanism he was using in an attempt to keep from punishment. But Mycroft had planned for multiple scenarios, all of which ended in the punishment he could sense Sherlock needed to resettle himself; it would not be difficult to lead his little brother down the appropriate paths to navigate to that inevitable end, adult or child. 

“That is not an inaccurate statement,” Mycroft relented, proceeding with bluntness as a way to meet Sherlock’s half-adult mind. “There were matters which drew my attention away from you for a time, yes.” 

Sherlock collapsed onto the bed with flailing limbs in an overdramatic expression of his frustration. A childlike response, yes, but the movement was too calculated to have come from a fully regressed Sherlock. It was a clear attempt to cajole a softer response from Mycroft, a tactic to gain sympathy and coddling. But Mycroft was not about to downplay the seriousness of the situation by catering to his little brother’s desire for immediate forgiveness. Comfort would come in due time. 

“You don’t care about me,” Sherlock spat. “You’re mean.” 

“I should have been more attuned to your needs this morning,” Mycroft said, hands clasped in stoic stillness as he refused to acknowledge Sherlock’s claims with a response. “I neglected to take into consideration your state of mind given the previous evening’s feelings of abandonment, and, although at the time I was required to prioritize government matters over your care, there were ways in which I could have attended to you while still dealing with this morning’s political demands.”

His brother was left rather speechless, and he humphed, turning to press his face against the mattress as he drew his legs to his chest, closing himself off from the outside world. Mycroft had identified Sherlock’s plan to play the victim for what it was: a means of avoiding having to face up to his actions. By admitting to his own wrongdoing, Mycroft had cut his little brother’s plan off at the knees, leaving Sherlock with few options beyond childish grunting and whining. 

“I apologize for my lapse in judgement,” Mycroft said, voice softening in sincerity. “And I hope you will understand that, although I indeed deem you far more important than my occupation, there are times when I will not be able to give you the type of full, undivided attention I would prefer to bestow upon those I love.” 

Sherlock turned his head to peek one eye up towards Mycroft. He had been left with few options beyond questioning Mycroft’s admission of affection, so, after a moment, the kid nodded, hesitant but without any ire. 

“That said,” Mycroft continued, stepping closer towards Sherlock as he shifted back into a tone of no-nonsense sternness. “You know self-harm of any kind is an unacceptable response to distress, and something about which we need to have a conversation.”

Sherlock whined in the back of his throat and kicked out his legs, flattening himself onto the mattress once more. This time, however, there was more pure frustration than manipulation in the act, a sure sign that the child Sherlock was emerging once more.

“I would suggest you cease flopping about like a fish and sit up so that we can process your decisions today.”

Sherlock pouted but did as he was told. Mycroft pulled over the corner armchair and sat facing Sherlock but said nothing, simply raised his eyebrows to signal that he expected Sherlock to explain himself. 

“I was mad at you,” Sherlock said with a shrug. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. His brother knew what was required for a proper explanation. They had decided on parameters long ago. Sherlock sighed, stomping his foot in a show of aggravation. 

“There were bad thoughts all morning,” he said, unable to make eye contact. “But I was distracted by the telly until I…” 

Sherlock’s cheeks pinked, and he whined, but kept talking.

“Until I came to find you because I was wet but you wouldn’t help me so I got mad and ran up to my room and threw things.” 

Mycroft hummed in disapproval of the destructive behavior, but refrained from speaking, waiting for the boy to go on.

“And I wasn’t going to do it,” he said, glancing up momentarily before staring back down at the floorboards. “But the lamp broke.”

“And?” Mycroft prompted.

“And I wanted to make you pay attention,” Sherlock admitted, quickly adding: “but then I felt naughty and didn’t want you to find me, so I called Papa.” 

“How many?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock yanked the sleeve covering the colorful plasters down further over his hand.

“Four,” he said, and Mycroft sighed. 

“There are far better ways to gain my attention than self-harm, string bean,” Mycroft said, unable to keep the compassion from his voice. He truly hated to see his little brother in pain. “You know better than to use these methods.” 

Sherlock nodded. They had had the conversation many times before; Mycroft did not need to reiterate what the boy already knew. Conversely, he needed to reassure the boy that big brother was there for him, that he could always trust him to help put things back into order. There were a few key ways Mycroft could do that for Sherlock, but only the kid could tell him which one he needed at the moment. 

“Tell me what you need now,” Mycroft said, prompting the boy. 

Sherlock breathed out hard and turned his gaze to Mycroft.

“Please, My,” he said, cheeks reddening at the necessity of saying it aloud. “I need you to spank me.” 

Mycroft nodded as he shifted to the edge of the chair, gesturing for the boy to come close as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. He never allotted spankings for self-harm unless the boy specified them as a need, not wanting to cast the boy further into pain if it weren’t necessary. That said, there were few tasks which could reassure Sherlock of Mycroft’s support and care as quickly and efficiently as spankings, so it was not uncommon for Sherlock to ask for them after the emotional weight that accompanied self-harm. 

He had the boy stripped of his pants and over his knees in no time at all. 

“I’m here, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said as Sherlock squirmed into place. “I’ve got you.”

He began rather gently, easing the kid into the punishment with periodic hits to each side of his bare bum, enough to begin to settle Sherlock’s racing mind before increasing the intensity of the spanking. Soon, Sherlock was whimpering, writhing on Mycroft’s lap with each hit. 

Mycroft remained finely attuned to Sherlock’s state of mind. There was a careful art to knowing how much the boy needed. Mycroft had become skilled at understanding the tells Sherlock had to show he’d had enough, and, today, it was a gasping sob that came after a long, drawn-out pattern of intense hits. 

Mycroft allowed the boy to slide from his knees, but he followed, crouching beside him on the floor to pull him into his arms. 

“Love you, My,” Sherlock said through his tears. “‘M sorry I was bad.”

“You made a bad decision, buddy,” Mycroft clarified, letting Sherlock press his face into his collarbone. “One that was unhealthy and dangerous. Next time, I want you to come to me or to Papa if you’re feeling like you might make the same decision. Do you understand?” 

Sherlock nodded, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Mycroft caught him gently by the left wrist, and, pulling Sherlock’s pajama sleeve to his elbow, exposed the colorful plasters lined along the underside of his forearm. 

The boy looked up at him in confusion, but Mycroft shushed him and, in a rare show of sentimentality, kissed each plaster in turn. 

“I love you too, brother mine,” Mycroft said when he’d finished. 

And then, voice no-nonsense once more: “Alright, into the corner to think about what you’ve done.”

He helped Sherlock to his feet and gave the boy one final tap to his reddened bum to get him moving. Sherlock obeyed, stepping to put his nose in the corner. 

“Be a good boy and stay there,” he said. “I’ll get some cream for that rash of yours. It can’t be feeling very good after that spanking.”

Mycroft had made a mistake in neglecting Sherlock, and Greg had made a poor judgment in bringing John to the crime scene. But at least this time they hadn't needed to traipse around back alleyways of London and dingy pubs looking for the drug-addict detective and his volatile best friend; the kids had stayed put, had even asked for help in their own ways. There would be future struggles, but, at least for the moment, Mycroft and Greg had John and Sherlock clearly in their sights, and, little by little, they were making progress.


End file.
